


What Storms May Blow

by LadyGreyWrites



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, F/M, Mentor/Sidekick, Slow Burn, The Slowest Burn Ever Maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2019-06-13 07:38:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 72,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15359520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGreyWrites/pseuds/LadyGreyWrites
Summary: Meryll is back and in this story, she accompanies her childhood hero, Ser Barristan Selmy, across the Narrow Sea to Essos to seek out Daenerys Targaryen.A big thank you to BlueEyesBlueSkies for always being willing to kick me in the butt to get me writing again!Tags will be added as I go





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BlueEyesBlueSkies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueEyesBlueSkies/gifts).



# Prologue

“He certainly hasn’t aged very well,” Walda whispered.

“Hmm?” Meryll murmured, distracted. She had been thinking Ser Barristan looked very handsome. Still tall and trim, his broad shoulders filled out his Kingsguard garb quite nicely. His hair, trimmed close around his head and snowy white, was the only indication of his age.

“King Robert. He’s so fat, nothing like the songs said he would be,” Walda added.

It was rare for the King to travel as far north as the Twins, so when Lord Grandfather received word that King Robert would be passing through on his way to Winterfell, the entire keep was swept from top to bottom, grand feasts prepared, and every member of House Frey had bathed and was dressed in their finest.

The royal party had arrived late the evening prior in a giant wheelhouse far too wide to pass through through the gates of the keep. Grandfather Walder, Uncle Stevron and his son Ryman had ridden out to greet them. The official greetings had been completed this morning, with Queen Cersei and her daughter quickly retiring back to the wheelhouse immediately after. It seemed that no amount of sweeping could make the stone floors of the Twins acceptable for Her Grace’s silk slippers.

Lord Grandfather and some of Meryll’s uncles had lingered in the Great Hall after breaking their fast, listening to King Robert tell war stories. The children had long since escaped to the yard, having no interest in the boring discussions of grown-ups. But Meryll and her sisters, at that odd age between childhood and adulthood, had stayed huddled at a table in the back of the hall, whispering about the King and his royal entourage.

Walda was right. King Robert had been described in the tales and songs as being handsome and strong, black of hair and blue of eyes. His hair still showed hints of black, and his eyes were as blue as she imagined, but his muscles had made way to rolls of fat. His face was ruddy and flushed from drinking, his cheeks jowly - not the maiden’s fantasy she had been expecting.

King Robert had brought along three of his Kingsguard - Sers Boros Blount and Meryn Trant, and the Lord Commander, Ser Barristan Selmy. Ser Boros Blount had gone out into the yard with the Prince and the other children, but the other two knights stood behind their king- Ser Meryn on one side, and Ser Barristan on the other. Meryll had been far more interested in seeing Ser Barristan than the members of the royal family. She had long been a lover of history books, and she was well-versed in the extensive and celebrated career of the knight known as Barristan the Bold. He was said to be Westeros’ greatest living knight, and like King Robert, had often been described as tall and strong and handsome, and those words still appeared to be true.

“He has so many double chins that it looks as if he is leaning on a pile of hot cakes,” Marissa said with a cackle. Meryll and Walda burst into giggles, attracting the attention of Aunt Wynafrei, who marched over shaking a finger at the girls.

“If you’re going to act like children, then you can join the others in the yard,” she scolded them, waving them out of their seats. Meryll glanced up to the dais before Aunt Wynafrei could chase her out of the hall. King Robert was still talking and seemed not to have taken any notice to the disruption at the back of the hall, but she could have sworn that Ser Barristan winked at her and her sisters.

 _At least somebody had a sense of humour,_ Meryll thought, rushing to get out of her Aunt’s reach. Once the double doors of the Great Hall were closed behind them, the three girls burst into giggles once again. Meryll would never be able to look upon a steaming plate of hot cakes the same way again.

The children were not in the yard as it happened, but the sounds of their shouts and laughter could be heard coming from the gardens. Meryll and her sisters entered the keep gardens to come across a rousing game of Lord of the Crossing. It was a popular game among the Frey children, and the little stream and decorative footbridge that was the centerpiece of the gardens was the perfect setting. As was common for games of Lord of the Crossing, this one had dissolved into a shouting argument. Prince Joffrey appeared to be the current Lord of the Crossing, and Uncle Olyvar was attempting to cross the bridge. Although Olyvar was a few years older than the Crown Prince, Joffrey stood nearly a head taller.

“But I said mayhaps!” Olyvar was protesting.

“I am the Crown Prince and you will do as I say!” the prince shouted.

Olyvar was normally a well-mannered young man, but he very much believed in fairness, and Meryll knew he wasn’t going to back down from the rules of the game no matter who his opponent. He attempted to push his way past the Prince, but Joffrey wasn’t having it and a struggled ensued, much to thrill of all the spectators.

If there was anything Meryll could not abide, it was a bully. She pushed her way through the crowd just in time to see Prince Joffrey pull his sword. The weapon looked more decorative than battle-worthy, but the point was still sharp enough to pierce the skin where Joffrey pushed it into the vulnerable skin where Olyvar’s neck met his shoulders. Although Ser Boros Blount stood watching, he made no move to stop his royal ward.

Meryll didn’t need to think twice. She ran to the bridge, ramming into Prince Joff and knocking him off his feet. She was dimly aware of her sister shouting her name in dismay when she pulled back her fist and slammed it into the Prince’s face. There was a fleeting moment of satisfaction when the Prince howled like a baby, but was interrupted when Meryll was yanked off of the Prince and hauled away by Ser Boros.

She shouted and kicked at the armoured knight but it didn’t seem to have any effect. Ser Boros carried her into the keep and back into the Great Hall, and set her down unceremoniously in front of her Lord Grandfather and King Robert. Prince Joffrey and Uncle Olyvar were not far behind, the rest of the children close on their heels.

“That girl attacked me!” Joffrey was yelling, one hand covering his face. “Where is Ser Ilyn? I want her punished!”

Meryll lunged toward the petulant Prince but Ser Boros was quick to pull her back. “He used his sword on Olyvar first!” she protested. When all eyes turned to stare at Olyvar, her young uncle seemed to shrink back into the crowd, looking very much like he wanted to have nothing to do with any of this.

Meryll’s father had joined Grandfather and the King on the dais. “What did you do, girl,” he seethed, his face contorted with rage. And then everyone was shouting at once, Meryll included, all fighting to share their version of the story.

“Enough!” King Robert yelled, and his booming voice quieted the room immediately. “Just a bit of child’s play gone too rough,” the King said.

“I want her head cut off!” Joffrey yelled. “Ser Ilyn! Bring your sword!”

Meryll wasn’t sticking around to see if Ser Ilyn, the King’s Justice, showed up with his executioner’s blade. When the Great Hall doors opened and Ser Boros turned around to look, she twisted out of his grasp and took off running.

 

 

“Ser Barristan, go and find the girl and see that she makes it home unharmed,” King Robert ordered him.

The girl’s father was quick to step forward and kneel at the King’s feet. “My apologies for the actions of my daughter, your grace. She is a wild and disobedient thing. I will see that she gets the strap when she returns.”

The King chuckled. “They are just squabbling children. Punish yours as you see fit, and I will have a talk with our young Prince this evening.”

Ser Barristan was glad to see that the King was not coming down too hard on the Frey girl. It was unacceptable to lay hands on a member of the royal family, of course, but it was also true that Prince Joffrey was the only one of the children to be bearing arms, and the boy Olyvar certainly had been stuck with a sword, as evidenced by the blood staining his tunic.

“I know where you’ll find Lady Meryll,” a knight of House Frey said to Barristan on his way out of the Great Hall. He introduced himself as Ser Danwell Frey, the eighth son of Lord Walder, and then gave Barristan very detailed instructions on where to find the girl’s hiding spot in the woods behind the keep.

With the directions provided by Ser Danwell, it did not take Barristan long to find the young lady. She was exactly where her uncle said she would be. Her blue gown, no doubt her very best, was soiled and torn, and her hair fell in disarray around her shoulders. Barristan stood for a moment, still hidden in the trees, and watched as Lady Meryll drew arrow after arrow, shooting furiously at various targets that had been hung from the branches of a large redwood. Visualizing Joff’s face as the target, no doubt, as every single arrow hit its bulls eye with a loud thud.

“My lady,” he greeted her as he entered the small clearing. She only glanced back briefly before drawing another arrow. This one missed. His presence unnerved her, perhaps. She started to draw again but he stopped her with a firm hand on her arm. “I’ll ask you to put the bow down, Lady Meryll,” he said gently.

She looked at him warily for a moment before returning the arrow to her quiver and letting the bow drop softly to the ground. “Did Prince Joffrey send you? Come to take my head, have you?”

Barristan chuckled at her bravado. The girl had no fear. It would get her into trouble again someday, perhaps even moreso than today. “King Robert asked that I return you safely to the keep. And no one is losing a head. He’s decided to leave your punishment up to your father.”

The young woman twitched slightly at the mention of her father. “I’m not ready to go back yet,” she said defiantly and picked up her bow once more.

Barristan was in no rush to return to the bickering back at the Twins either. The realm was at peace; the King safe in the hands of Ser Meryn and Ser Boros in any case, and Ser Jaime kept a close eye on the Queen. The old knight found a sturdy redwood near the edge of the clearing and slowly lowered himself to the ground, resting his back against the sturdy trunk. Though he still stood straight and tall, not hunched over like many men of his age, he did suffer more aches and pains than he ever remembered, and took rest when he was able.

He watched the young lady take her stance once more and draw an arrow. He could see her shoulders rise and then fall as she exhaled all the air from her lungs, and then her muscles tensed for just an instant before relaxing and loosing the arrow. He looked on with approval. It would be a different matter altogether were she shooting in a battle situation with foes coming on all sides, but for hunting or target shooting, her technique was sound.

“Who taught you?” he asked as she went to retrieve the arrows from the targets. Walder did not seem the type to allow his girls to train in the arts of men, and she was very good. Too good to be self-taught.

She was quiet for so long that he didn’t think she was going to answer him, and when she finally turned around, there was a troubled look on her face. “My Uncle Danwell. But Father does not know. Or Lord Grandfather. I would be very grateful if you did not mention it to anyone, Ser Barristan.”

So she knew who he was. It wasn’t a complete surprise, of course. Certainly after this many years of fighting wars and serving in the Kingsguard, his name was known throughout the realm, but he wouldn’t have assumed a young lady such as herself would recognize him at sight. He nodded solemnly. “I see no reason for it to come up in conversation, my lady.”

Lady Meryll seemed relieved, and nodded her thanks before gathering her bow and quiver in her arms. Curious, he watched as she took her belongings over to a hollow tree trunk and stuffed them inside. _Yes, this one was trouble, that was a certainty._

“I’m ready to go now,” she announced.

Barristan rose to his feet and gestured in front of him, indicating that the young lady should lead the way. He followed behind in silence. They must have been halfway back to the Twins before she spoke.

“How can you protect that little shit?” she asked, slowing to let him walk beside her. It was not appropriate language for a lady, especially not one from a noble House such as hers. But then he had witnessed the foul mouths of her father and uncles in the Great Hall that morning, and it was no wonder she spoke in such a manner.

“It is my duty,” he said simply.

“Your duty,” she repeated with disbelief. “A knight’s duty is to defend the young and innocent and protect all women.”

She was not wrong. But he was not just a knight. “As a Kingsguard, my duty is to serve the King and the royal family,” he said.

“So you are not a knight anymore?”

He sighed and opened his mouth to correct her, but she was not finished.

“I acted more a knight than Ser Boros,” she said, giving him a sidelong glance. “Prince Joffrey was hurting Olyvar for no reason, so I defended the young and innocent.”

“You punched the Crown Prince in the face,” Ser Barristan said wryly.

“Yes, it was my duty,” was her prim response.

It would not be appropriate for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to smile at such a statement, and so he kept his face solemn. “My duty is to the King and the royal family foremost, it is true. That does not negate the oaths I made when I was knighted, it only means my knightly oaths are secondary to serving my sworn liege. There is a reason the knights of the Kingsguard are forbidden to marry, father children, or hold land. Normal men have a duty to family, to the gods, to whatever they love most in the world, but a man who is sworn to protect the king must not be swayed by any of those things.”

His explanation of duties did not seem to satisfy Lady Meryll. “And so if the King decides to kill all the women and children in the realm? You would just stand by?” she asked, turning to face him. “And if he commanded you to help?”

These were all arguments he had heard before. From his own father, no less. “I hardly think King Robert would order such a thing.” _But Aerys nearly had, before the Kingslayer stopped him_.

“But if he did?” she pressed.

“Then I would be sworn to obey,” he admitted.

“I would never want to be a Kingsguard then,” she said. “I would rather have the freedom to do the right thing than to have some fancy title and a white cape that is bound to get dirty seconds after donning it.”

He bit back a smile for the second time in so many moments. “You have a good heart, my lady,” he said, reaching forward to move a low lying branch out of her path. “But if you manage to get yourself killed by the future King of Westeros, you will be no help to the weak and innocent. Perhaps a bit of prudence next time?”

“You make a good point, Ser Barristan,” she allowed, and smiled sweetly. “Perhaps next time I will just give him a good kick in the shins.”

 

 

It was days later when Meryll finally returned to her little secret forest sanctuary. Father’s punishment had left a sting on her backside that lasted long after King Robert’s wheelhouse rolled back onto the Kingsroad. Still, it was nothing compared to the punishment Prince Joffrey wished upon her. _To think that little shit would be King someday._

Upon entering the small clearing in the woods, Meryll immediately knew that something was off. An intruder had been in her space, she _knew_ it. She looked around, trying to see if anything was out of place. _There it was_. One of her makeshift archery targets, the one that had long since frayed its ropes and fallen forgotten to the ground, had been repaired and was now hanging with the rest from the big redwood tree.

Meryll rushed over to the hollow tree trunk where she stashed all of her treasures, and began pulling item after item out onto the ground in front of her. Nothing was missing, but there were some new additions. A short sword, plain and unembellished, but of good quality castle-forged steel, had been added, along with a leather belt and scabbard. Meryll attempted to fasten the belt around her waist but it was much too large. _It would be easy enough to alter_ , she reasoned. _But who would have left such a thing?_

That was when she noticed the neatly-rolled scroll of parchment. The brief note had been written in a small and elegant script.

_Lady Meryll,_

_I thought this blade would be well-suited for you, and would serve to aid you in your quest to protect the weak and innocent. Find yourself a good teacher and train hard._

_Lord Commander of the Kingsguard,  
Ser Barristan Selmy_


	2. Chapter 1

# Chapter One

_Ser Barristan Selmy flung his sword at the foot of the Iron Throne. "Here, boy. Melt it down and add it to the others, if you like. It will do you more good than the swords in the hands of these five,” he said, gesturing to his former sworn brothers of the Kingsguard. “Perhaps Lord Stannis will chance to sit on it when he takes your throne." — A Game of Thrones, Sansa V_

Barristan turned on his heel and left. Not to the door through which he had escorted the royal party, but the long way - past all the lords and ladies in attendance. _Were they laughing? In shock?_ He dared not look at their faces. The Throne Room had never seemed so vast as it did that day, as all looked on while he made his exit. The two young page boys hurried to open the large double doors to make way for him, yet they stared at their feet rather than meet his eyes when he passed through.

It was shameful. Preposterous. To be dismissed from a position that he had sworn his life to. _Only death may relieve the Lord Commander of his sacred trust._ Or a Lannister, evidently.

_“You let my father die. You’re too old to protect anybody.”_

King Joffrey’s words rang loud in the old knight’s mind. Dismissed for his age, despite defeating knights nearly forty years his junior at the last tourney. His own brothers of the Kingsguard had laughed at him. Men he had fought beside, trained beside, led into battle. Did they laugh because they truly found their Lord Commander’s shame so humorous? Sers Boros and Meryn were both Lannister men to the core, loyal to their Queen despite their vows to King Robert. They had no love for Selmy, that was certain. And Ser Balon and Ser Preston had both been with Barristan in the Kingswood when King Robert received the wound that would eventually lead to his death. Did they fear they would be dismissed next? Was their laughter a nervous laughter?

_Fools, all of them_. The best of the Kingsguard had perished during Robert’s Rebellion. Ser Gerold Hightower, Prince Lewyn, Ser Arthur Dayne, those were the men Barristan had been proud to call brothers, the men who brought _honour_ to the Kingsguard. And now, Barristan would be replaced as Lord Commander by Ser Jaime Lannister. The Kingslayer. The Queen Regent’s own brother. And the King’s _father_ if those vile rumours had any truth to them. Perhaps Ned Stark had the right of it after all.

A stout keep and men to serve him, that was what was offered for Barristan’s years of service. _A hall to die in and men to bury him_. He would not sit idle and grow fat, not while he still had strength in him.

In his anger, he had not known where he intended to go after leaving the Throne Room, but soon found himself climbing the spiral steps of the White Sword Tower to the quarters he had shared with his brothers of the Kingsguard for over thirty-seven years. He walked into the Round Room, where he had chaired all of the meetings of the Kingsguard since Robert had appointed him Lord Commander. The White Book, the tome that recorded the deeds of every member who had ever served in the three hundred year history of the Kingsguard, lay on the massive weirwood table, and Ser Barristan flipped through the pages until he found his own entry.

There, in Gerold Hightower’s scrawling hand, was a list of all of Barristan’s achievements, from squirehood to the War of the Ninepenny Kings, to the Defiance of Duskendale to Lord Steffon’s Tourney at Storm’s End. And then, the list continued in Barristan’s own hand, neater and smaller than his predecessor’s. It started with his wounds at the Trident where he had lost so many of his brothers, and then his pardoning and appointment to Lord Commander by King Robert, followed by a list of his more recent tourney victories. And there it ended. Hands trembling with rage, Barristan picked up the quill and dipped it in the inkwell.

_Dismissed from service by King Joffrey I Baratheon in his 61st year, for reasons of advanced age._

Barristan left the book open for the ink to dry- he dared not tarry any longer. He climbed several more flights of stairs to the fifth floor where he kept his private quarters- a humble room, large, though sparsely furnished. He stripped off his cloak and white armour, bitterly remembering the day at age twenty-three when Gerold Hightower had flung the snowy white cloak over his shoulders. The vows he took that day had meant something, he had taken those vows for life, not to be dismissed on the whim of a Lannister.

Barristan dressed himself in simple clothing - worn breeches and a rough-hewn tunic, a dark cloak over top - and after some consideration, armed himself with only a dagger. He had sworn an oath to use his sword and shield to protect the King and the royal family, and he would no longer be doing that. Taking no other belongings with him, he hurried out of the tower only to find his brother Kingsguard, Ser Arys Oakheart, waiting for him by the door.

“Pull that hood up, my lord,” Ser Arys said, ignoring how Barristan’s hand immediately went to his dagger. “The King has branded you a traitor and ordered you to be seized and questioned. The City Watch will be looking for you.”

Barristan took the knight’s counsel and pulled the hood up over his head. He was no longer a lord, his title stripped from him, but he did not bother correcting Ser Arys. “So the offer of a keep and servants was just empty words,” Barristan commented blithely.

“I suspect the offer was considered void when you insinuated that Lord Stannis would take the throne,” Ser Aerys said, matching Barristan’s casual tone.

Words spoken in anger, in the heat of the moment. But even with the consequences, Barristan felt little regret for his parting words to Joffrey. “Thank you, ser,” Barristan said to Ser Arys, the only member of the Kingsguard who Barristan had chosen himself. “I wish you well in these troubling times.”

He managed to reach the stables without running into any of the gold cloaks of the City Watch. His hooded cloak evidently was not much of a disguise as the stable boys recognized him immediately and rushed to saddle a horse. News spread quickly in the Red Keep, but these boys had not yet heard of his dismissal, or if they had, they were risking their lives to aid his escape. Not knowing which was the case, he thanked the boys regardless, and mounted his horse. He rode out the doors only to be met by Janos Slynt and two of his men.

“I order you to surrender in the name of the King,” Janos shouted, drawing his sword. The two gold cloaks followed suit and Barristan had no choice but to draw his dagger. Poor defense against the long swords of the City Watch but the gold cloaks were back alley fighters and not trained knights. Barristan spurred his horse forward toward the gold cloaks. Janos and one of his men dived to the side to avoid the charging horse, but the other was braver and made to swing his sword at Barristan. The swing was ill-timed and Barristan easily ducked to evade it, and at the same time, slashed his dagger at the man’s face. He did not linger long enough to see the results but the man’s anguished cry told him that his aim was true.

Barristan rode hard for the River Gate with the gold cloaks in hot pursuit. Being on horseback, he should have been able to easily out-pace them, but the streets outside the Red Keep were congested and the people were slow to move aside to make way for the warhorse. Still, he made it to the gates without Janos and his men catching up, though they were close enough to yell a warning to the guards at the gate.

“Seize him! He is wanted by the King!” Janos shouted with effort, out of breath from the pursuit. The two guards crossed their spears to bar the way, but Barristan only urged his horse on, praying the men would have some sense and step aside.

His prayers went unanswered and he rode one of the guards down. When the other jabbed his spear toward Barristan, he yanked it out of the guard’s hand, readjusted his grip and drove the spear into the man’s chest. And then he was free to exit the city.

He continued riding hard for several miles until, satisfied with the distance between himself and the capital, he stopped in a small village. He had nothing but the clothes on his back, the meager dagger that had saved his life, and the horse. The horse was worth a few silvers though, and would not be needed for what Barristan had in mind. He sold the horse, and pocketed the much needed coin.

He grieved for the two guards he had surely killed. Men following orders, that was something Barristan could understand. They likely had not even known who they were barring the gate from when they raised their spears. But their commander had spoken, and they obeyed blindly. _Needless deaths_. There had been so many over the years. If only he had not dared to speak Stannis Baratheon’s name in front of King Joffrey. Of course Joff would see it as treachery, a sign that Barristan would swear fealty to Robert’s brother. But Barristan had no such intentions. Because his regret went further back than his words earlier in the day. Did he regret not supporting King Robert’s dying edict to make Ned Stark regent? Yes. But that was not the beginning of it. It was just one event in a long string of events that had brought dishonour to Barristan and soiled his cloak.

_He should have never accepted Robert’s pardon._

Barristan had been knighted by King Aegon V, raised to the Kingsguard by Jaeherys the II, and nearly died fighting for Prince Rhaegar at the Trident: Targaryens all. Maybe he _should_ have died there, alongside his Prince and sworn brothers. An honourable death, on the battlefield, sword in hand. But even after seizing the crown, Robert had acted chivalrously, sparing the lives of those who had acted only out of loyalty to their sworn liege, and so Barristan accepted his pardon and was named Lord Commander of Robert’s Kingsguard.

Should he have chosen exile instead? It had not been presented as an option, but neither had Barristan asked for it. The thought had only occurred to him after he had sworn his oaths to King Robert. And once those oaths were sworn, he would not break them by sneaking off in the night and crossing the Narrow Sea to find Aerys’ exiled son, Viserys. And as the years went by, Barristan continued to make excuses for his decision: Viserys was too young. Viserys was showing signs of madness already. Robert had been a good knight and so would be a good king.

But Robert had not been a good king. He drank too much, loved too much, and ruled too little. He turned a blind eye while his wife’s house infiltrated the Red Keep, filling key positions with Lannister lackeys and undermining Robert’s rule. Barristan did what he had always done. He protected the King and obeyed orders. He listened without hearing, saw without seeing, and acted only when he was told to. He did his duty.

At last reporting to the Small Council, Viserys and his sister, Daenerys, were with the Dothraki. Across the Narrow Sea. There was time yet to fulfill his oaths to King Jaeherys. Barristan could cross the sea and swear fealty to the young Targaryen, Aerys’ rightful heir. He could sail from Kings Landing, but without a doubt, the docks would be full of gold cloaks. Barristan needed a better disguise, seeing how he had been unable to fool a couple of stable boys.

He spent a night in the village, though he did not sleep, and in the morning, joined the long line of small folk heading to Kings Landing to seek refuge from Ser Gregor Clegane’s pillaging and looting. Barristan dressed in rags, dirtied his face and hands, and added a wooden walking stick to his small collection of belongings. And then, hood pulled low over his face, he entered the city through the Gate of the Gods less than a day after he had escaped through the River Gate. There, he spent weeks on end begging in the most decrepit parts of Flea Bottom, letting his beard grow long, sleeping in alleys or when he was lucky, in the septs, and taking his meals in pot-shops.

And so Barristan was there that day, when the bells of the Great Sept rang throughout the whole city, and he followed the crowds to watch the spectacle. He stood by and watched, as he had so many times through so many injustices, but this time it was not duty that bound his feet in place, but simply the knowledge that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He watched as Ned Stark was brought forth onto the steps of the Great Sept, watched as Ned’s daughter, Lady Sansa, and the Queen Regent and King Joffrey, and even the High Septon himself joined Ned on the dais. He watched as Ned made a false confession to treason, to betraying Robert, to plotting to murder King Joffrey in order to take the throne for himself. Though the false confession reeked of dishonour, it gave Barristan a small glimmer of hope. If Ned was confessing to crime he was innocent of, he must have been offered a pardon. Perhaps he would be sent to the Wall.

But it was not to be.

Barristan watched as Joffrey dismissed the notion of mercy as being something of the soft hearts of women, watched as the King called for his Justice, watched as Ned was thrown over the edge of the marble steps, watched as the blade of Ilyn Payne swung down, and watched as Ned’s head tumbled down the stairs.

He turned away in disgust. Barristan stood in the shadows of the Sept as the crowds cleared the square, their entertainment finished. And he waited still, until the royal party had departed back to the Red Keep, and longer yet, as the body and head were removed, and the blood scrubbed away until the marble once again gleamed in the sunlight. It was only then that Barristan climbed the stairs of the Great Sept, feeling a weariness in his bones that he had never yet experienced, and went in to pray.

Barristan prayed for Ned Stark, for his House, for his children and wife. And Barristan prayed for himself, giving thanks to the Seven Gods that Joffrey had stripped him of his cloak. He found his purpose there, he knew the time had come. He would go east to find his rightful liege and serve loyally for however number of days he had left to live. He had lived a knight, and he would die a knight.

For all his renewed motivation and purpose, he stopped short at the docks, for they were crawling with gold cloaks. _Were they still searching for him?_ Barristan wondered. Or for Stark men, perhaps? He walked along the fishmongers, playing his role as a beggar, and observed as every ship was carefully searched before leaving port. This would not be his escape. As he turned to leave, he was stopped by another beggar, ironically dressed in similar brown rags, his face covered by a cowl.

“If you wish to cross the Narrow Sea, you’ll need to set your sights further north. You’ll not find safe passage at the Saltpans, nor Maidenpool. Perhaps Gulltown, or better yet, White Harbour,” the old man said. Barristan stared, his hand closing around his dagger concealed by the folds of his cloak. The old man smiled, and that was when Barristan recognized him. _Varys_.

“They are looking for the Stark girls now, but they will be looking for you next. Do not linger here long- I will need to provide information of use to the Queen. A sighting of Ser Barristan Selmy, that is information that would be gratefully received, indeed,” Varys continued.

“You offer me aid and threaten me in the same breath?” Barristan asked angrily.

“Unlike you, I don’t have honour standing in the way of my survival,” Varys said, and turned away. He disappeared into the crowds, his brown rags blending perfectly with the rest of the small folk.

Barristan scowled. Varys had somehow managed to make his last words sound both mocking and sympathetic at the same time. Barristan did not know if he could trust the Spider. _Of course, he could not_ , he chastised himself. But it was true that White Harbour would be out of the reach of the Crown. The journey would be long. And he wondered who he would be able to trust along the way. 


	3. Chapter 2

# Chapter Two

 _Dark wings, dark words_ , Meryll thought as another raven flew overhead toward the keep. The ravens had been plentiful over the past few turns of the moon, and the words had been dark indeed. King Robert was dead, and Joffrey had been crowned king with his mother, Cersei acting as regent. Ned Stark was dead as well, having confessed to plotting against Robert in an attempt to take control of the crown. New kings were popping up everywhere. Both of Robert’s younger brothers, Renly and Stannis, had made claims to the crown, and Robb Stark was marching south and calling himself the King in the North. Even more disturbing, a raven had brought the news that Ser Barristan Selmy had been accused of treason against the crown, and a bounty had been offered for his return to Kings Landing.

Ravens brought messages in, and they took them out as well. The door to Grandfather’s study was often closed, and behind those doors he held hushed discussions with the most favoured of his sons. The Twins had received many interesting visitors as well. Lady Catelyn had arrived, and negotiated passage for her son Robb, the new Lord of Winterfell, to cross the bridge with his army. And most recently, Lord Bolton, who came looking for a wife among the eligible Frey girls.

Even moreso than ever, the quiet clearing in the woods had become a refuge for Meryll, a place to escape the tension and talk of war among her kin. She crouched down by the old hollow log and pulled out her most treasured belongings. Her hand paused on the sword belt and scabbard. She drew the short sword from its scabbard, examined the blade, and then reached for a sharpening stone.

 _Find a teacher and train hard_ , Ser Barristan Selmy’s words had read. More than a year had passed since then, but it was not that easy finding someone willing to train her at the Twins. Her father had long refused to let Meryll receive any of the same training as her male kin- even her archery skills had been learned in secret- and she dared not ask any of her uncles for help. She spent her mornings watching the men train in the yard as they went through the sequences and drills, and she committed them to memory. And then whenever she had a moment to sneak away, she would go to the forest clearing and go through each of the measured movements on her own. But as helpful as that was, she knew she needed an opponent to train properly.

Meryll had told exactly four people about the gift from Ser Barristan. Her three sisters, and Uncle Olyvar. Her sisters had teased her endlessly about her new paramour, _Barristan the Old,_ knowing full well the adoration Meryll had held for the knight since she was young enough to still be read bedtime stories. Olyvar, however, had taken pity on Meryll, and she occasionally was able to convince him to spar with her in the forest, away from the watchful eyes of her father.

But Olyvar was gone now. He was to be King Robb’s squire, as part of Catelyn Stark’s negotiations for crossing the Green Fork. Meryll sighed, sheathing the blade. A war was coming, that was certain. Lord Grandfather had been busy writing letters, because that was his way, and her cousins and uncles had been training and preparing for long marches in the field. Her attempts to join in had been thwarted and ridiculed. She was just a girl, she was told, and she should stay in the keep and do her sewing. Still, it didn’t hurt to know how to defend oneself, she thought, reaching for her bow.

A sound in the bushes startled her, and she snatched her hand back. “Who’s there?” she called, rising to her feet. Other than Uncles Olyvar and Danwell, no one else came to this clearing. Her hand dropped, fingertips brushing over the pommel of her sword. The Lannister men had been razing and pillaging villages all over the Riverlands, although none had been sighted as far north as the Twins as of yet.

An old man emerged from the brush, hooded and hunched over, dressed in rags. He leaned heavily on a walking stick and did not appear to be armed. Still, it was odd for a stranger to be seen in these parts, so close to the keep. “Are you alone here?” the man asked, stepping closer.

It was a strange question, and Meryll’s fingers closed around her sword then, ready to draw steel if necessary. Her small movement did not go unnoticed by the man, and he suddenly stood to his full height, at least a head taller than Meryll.

“Do not draw that sword unless you mean to use it,” he warned, no longer leaning on the staff. He was _not_ unarmed as she had initially thought, as what had once appeared to be a simple walking stick now looked very much like a weapon. But the voice was familiar, and she stepped toward him, trying to peer under his hood despite her earlier reservations.

He lifted his free hand slowly, as if not wanting to alarm her, and pushed back the hood, letting it fall over his shoulders. A snowy white beard and dirt obscured his face but she would have recognized those pale blue eyes anywhere.

“Ser Barristan,” she gasped, letting her blade fall safely back into its sheath. “Wh-what are you … the crown…” she stammered. “There is a price on your head!” she finally exclaimed, feeling foolish. Of course, he already knew that.

“Have you been taking care of it?” Ser Barristan asked, reaching toward her.

Meryll shied away, confused for a moment, and then realized he was speaking of the sword. She removed it from its scabbard and he took it from her carefully, one hand on the pommel, the other under the blade. He examined it with narrowed eyes, turning the blade in his hand, and finally nodded his approval and handed it back to her. He then walked over to the pile of belongings she had pulled from the hollow tree trunk. Meryll watched, bewildered, not knowing why he had travelled so far north or why he would be at the Twins. He poked through the pile and finally pulled out a training sword- the one she used when sparring with Olyvar. He approached her, the training sword in hand.

“Draw your blade, show me what you’ve learned.”

Meryll made to decline, to refuse him, but already he advanced, swinging the wooden sword lazily at her. She drew her steel sword just in time to parry the first blow. She swore under her breath. Had she known there was to be a test, she would have studied much more diligently. She stepped back and raised her blade, ready for the next swing.

She had never excelled with the blade, always preferring to stay just out of reach, whether hidden in the shadows or perched high above her prey, bow in hand. This hand-to-hand combat was unwelcome and brutish, lacking the grace of an arrow soaring through the sky. Meryll managed to get her sword up to parry a high swing at her head. She stepped back again, taking a defensive stance, though the forest wall was only a few feet behind her now.

“Stay focused,” Ser Barristan said, slapping her leg with his blade.

He was not the man he used to be, no longer the shining knight garbed in white and gold. His training sword rained down a series of blows against her, ruthless, no doubt leaving bruises that she would feel in the morning. Ser Barristan’s quiet words of chastisement shamed her. She wasn’t focused, wasn’t present in the moment. She was worried about the knight, who did not look himself, a new weariness in his eyes, resignation in every movement. It was strange to see him long haired, unshaven and cloaked in such drab colours, though it was not an unattractive look. Regardless, the rough-spun garments could not hide his warrior’s strength.

 _Focus_ , she reminded herself as she barely lifted her sword up in time to block another attack. Her defensive stance was not doing her any favours, and she would soon have her back up against the trees. He would win a battle of strength, and a battle of endurance, but she was smaller than him, and maybe, just _maybe_ , a bit quicker.

Meryll shifted her weight to her front foot and delivered a few experimental swings at Ser Barristan, knowing he would easily parry them, but she needed to gain some momentum to have any hope at all. She was exhausted and her arms burned with fatigue but she dug deep and managed to find that last little bit of energy to duck down and thrust low at the knight’s legs.

He moved faster than she imagined possible for a man his age, and brought his sword low to parry her thrust. “Yes!” he shouted nonetheless, and stepped back, giving her time to regroup. “Again,” he said, beckoning her forward with his free hand.

Meryll sighed and brought her sword back up. She was already tired and she longed to quit, but Ser Barristan seemed to have a single focus and would not let up until he was satisfied with her swordsmanship. She took a breath to steady herself. This was _Ser Barristan Selmy_ , perhaps one of the greatest knights _ever_ , and he was taking the time to spar with her. It was not an opportunity to be squandered.

She pushed forward as she swung at him, and though he easily parried each and every blow, he let her have the upper hand and stepped back as she advanced. Tired and frustrated, she swung her blade hard at his off-side, forcing him to use a backhanded block, and her steel blade cleaved his wooden one in two. Laughing, he dropped what was left of the wooden sword and clapped his hands. “Good, very good.” 

Meryll plopped down onto the ground in a heap of exhaustion. She nearly burst with pride that the knight applauded her efforts, clumsy as they were. Would he still have applauded if she had been a young squire and not a woman? She pushed the thought aside. What did it matter, so long as she was receiving training and improving?

Gasping for breath, Meryll took a drink from the waterskin hanging from her belt and then passed it along to Ser Barristan, though he hadn’t even broken a sweat from their sparring. “I thought you would have gone to Stannis,” she said, hoping he would share his reasons for being in the Riverlands.

“Not Stannis, no,” he said dismissively. “Your conditioning needs work.”

His comment shamed her. He stood there, calm and relaxed as if he had just taken a leisurely stroll while her heart was pounding with exertion, brow dripping. “It is not so easy for a woman to find training in a noble house, Ser,” she said, sounding more defensive than she would have liked. “Father and Grandfather never approved of me learning to hunt, never mind training in combat. And now both Uncle Danwell and Olyvar are gone, and they are the only ones who were willing to help me. They left with the northern army.” She paused, peering at him. “Is that why you are here? Do you mean to join Robb?”

Ser Barristan raised an eyebrow and handed her waterskin back. “Robb Stark? Why would I do that?”

 _He didn’t know_ , she realized. “Robb has been crowned King in the North and he is marching his armies south,” she said.

Ser Barristan frowned. “Four kings, then.” And then nodded, seemingly to himself. “There will be war, there is no doubt in my mind. It is good you can defend yourself, but your foes will not always fight with honour.”

Meryll gave the knight a look of disbelief after wiping the sweat from her brow. He actually wanted her to fight dirty? That was … unexpected. She had won many bouts with her cousins by feigning injury and then tackling her opponent once their guard was down. In all honesty, fighting dirty was her specialty but what kind of idiot would fight disrespectfully with Ser Barristan Selmy? “I am well-acquainted with dishonourable tactics, Ser Barristan. Perhaps you are aware of the reputation of my house,” she said bitterly. Meryll was well aware of the jokes that were made about the _Late Walder Frey_ , who always skirted the very edge of his promises and oaths to his overlords of House Tully. Ser Barristan would be well-versed in such talk as well.

She met his eyes then, and felt as if he was taking measure of her worth. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision, and he lay a hand on her shoulder. “You fought well,” he said simply.

His touch felt reassuring, but at the same time, she worried for him. _Wanted for treason_ … who knew the price King Joffrey had placed on the former Lord Commander’s head? To see Ser Barristan unshaven and dressed in commoners clothes, anyone would be hard-pressed to recognize him, but if someone had seen him sparring with her just a moment ago, there would be no doubt of the man’s identity.

“The crown has sent ravens to every noble house telling of the price on your head. How did you even get here?” she asked.

He lowered himself to the ground beside her. “I rode to the Crossroads, and then sold my mount and walked from there.” He pulled the hood over his hair again. “No one looks too closely at an old beggar. But I dare not linger in one place for too long.”

She looked at him closely, searching his eyes for what lie hidden there. He had answered all of her questions sparingly, only offering the barest of details and changing the subject whenever she probed too deeply. He must have come here for a reason. She wanted to ask him what his plans were, where he was going. But he was taking a chance even revealing his identity to her. The price on his head was enough that none of her kin would think twice before turning him over to the crown.

“I know a place,” she said, pushing up to her feet. “An abandoned crofter’s hut, not far from here. You can rest there.”

He stood and waited patiently as she returned her belongings to the hollow tree, though she left her sword belt snugly fastened around her waist.

“Where will you go?” Meryll dared to ask as she led him through the trees. She sighed when he didn’t immediately provide an answer and tilted her head toward him. “Clearly, you have decided to trust me enough to accept my offer of shelter for the evening, so why not tell me where you are going?”

Ser Barristan stared at her for a moment before offering a small smile. “You make a good point, my lady. I seek out the last living children of Aerys the Second. Viserys and Daenerys are somewhere in Essos, and I mean to find them and live out my oath to their grandfather, King Jaeherys.”

It was not a secret that two of King Aerys’ children had escaped after Robert’s Rebellion, but Meryll didn’t think anyone knew where they were. “Somewhere in Essos? How will you ever find them?” she asked.

“The Princess Daenerys was recently married to a Dothraki Khal, and was last seen outside Vaes Dothrak. She has an army of Dothraki at her command, and will need someone to advise and protect her.”

Meryll looked at him doubtfully.

“It is a starting point, if nothing else,” he said.

So he wanted to find a new Liege, another to bend his knee to. One who was worthy of his service. For this man knew nothing but a life of servitude, when she thought about it. He would be lost without a King to serve.

The late afternoon sun was low in the sky, creating dappled patches of light breaking through the tree cover. A white raven from the citadel had arrived just a month earlier, signaling the end of a nearly ten year summer. The sun was still warm, but the autumn air was chilly in the shade of the forest. Meryll pulled her cloak tighter around her as they walked. She deliberately avoided the river’s edge, where they were more likely to run into other travellers.

“Viserys and his sister, Daenerys Stormborn,” Meryll said, considering. The youngest child of King Aerys had been named as such after being born at Dragonstone during a raging storm. “Another claimant to the crown? And once you find them?” she asked.

“I will serve the rightful ruler of Westeros, and die in his service,” Ser Barristan said, as if the answer was obvious.

Meryll didn’t respond. She couldn’t blame him for feeling a pull toward the Targaryen siblings. Ser Barristan had been knighted by Aegon V, afterall. Cloaked in white by King Jaeharys II, and had served King Aerys II and Prince Rhaegar after that. The Targaryens would have been Barristan’s family after he gave up his claim to his own birthright. It was said that the gods flipped a coin every time a Targaryen was born to see if they would inherit madness or greatness. And which side did the coin of Viserys Targaryen fall on? If he carried his father’s madness, would the guidance of Ser Barristan be enough to tame him? And who knew what ‘rightful ruler’ even meant anymore. It seemed nearly everyone had a claim to the throne these days. She found herself conflicted by what Ser Barristan was telling her. It eased her heart to hear him speak of finding someone who needed his help, of using his skills for good. And yet, he wanted to leave the Seven Kingdoms.

Her first instinct was to beg him to take her with him. There would be no honour to be found during this war, not at the Twins. Grandfather would say “maybe” to one king, and “perhaps” to the next, and “wait and see” to another, all while collecting his tolls and waiting for an obvious winner to emerge before placing his bets. But she would not ask Ser Barristan such a thing. She didn’t think she could stand the disappointment. Her own father and uncles had turned her down often enough that the rejection no longer stung, or perhaps it was just that she had stopped asking. It was no wonder she was rubbish with a sword when no one was willing to spar with her. At least with her bow she could hone her skills without anyone’s help. Ser Barristan had been the first to take her seriously, to see _her_ , and not just a foolish girl wanting to swing a sword around. And now he was leaving, and would cross the Narrow Sea to lands far away.

“You needn’t leave right away,” she found herself saying as they approached the hut. “Stay here as long as you need,” she said, pushing the door open. She stood there by the door, taking in once again the odd sight of the great Ser Barristan Selmy dressed as an old beggar. He had been on the run for months already. More than enough time to put some careful thought into his plans. Leaving for Essos- this wasn’t an impulsive decision for him. He truly meant to find the last Targaryens.

Ser Barristan followed her into the hut, and looked around briefly. The one-room abode was furnished with only a small wooden table and two chairs, and a bedroll with a wooden chest at the foot.  He turned and nodded his thanks. “Thank you, my lady, this is more than I could have ever hoped for.”

“I’ll sneak some food from the kitchens and bring it after dark,” Meryll said, turning to leave. But she lingered in the doorway for a moment, reluctant to go. “I could go with you, you know,” she said, lightly, so she could claim she had been joking if he outright refused her. “Across the Narrow Sea. You never know what dangers might lurk in Essos, you might need a second sword,” she added, tapping her sword.

Ser Barristan indulged her with a strained smile, and she prepared herself for the inevitable rejection. He stood by the table, his hands clasped around the back of one of the rickety chairs. He did not speak right away but to her surprise, seemed to be taking her offer into consideration. “I have no right to refuse such an offer, but neither would I ask such a thing of you,” he said. “There is no guarantee that you will ever return to Westeros. Could you truly leave your family behind?”

“There is nothing left for me here,” she said. “Uncle Danwell and Olyvar are gone. Mother and Marissa have gone south to Darry, and my other two sisters have recently married and I fear I may be next. There is no place for a woman in war, other than to cower behind the keep walls and pray at the sept. Or to be used as a pawn, sealing alliances or serving as glorified hostages through marriage.”

“Your father has not arranged a betrothal for you yet?” Ser Barristan asked.

Maybe he hadn’t meant anything by the question, but Meryll knew she was getting past the age at which most girls married and she had to push down a slight feeling of embarrassment. “Father says he will need to find a particular sort of man for me. Someone strong-handed enough to keep me in line,” she said with a scowl.

Ser Barristan blinked. “I see.” He removed his cloak, hanging it over the chair. “This is not a decision to be made lightly, so you must think on it. But do not take too long - I mean to leave on the morrow.”

She nodded and left him without an answer, heading back toward the keep. It was near dark by the time she reached the gates, and once within the walls, she headed straight for the kitchens. Ser Barristan had every right to refuse her, Meryll thought as she descended the stone stairs. He would have no status in Essos, and her presence would likely put him in more danger. Especially if he insisted on protecting her, which a knight such as him was wont to do.

Meryll held her leather pack open as the cook filled it with various odds and ends from the kitchen. “Off hunting pheasants at dawn again?” he asked with a wink. She nodded, it was as good a story as any, and wouldn’t seem unusual to anyone who asked about her whereabouts. “A wineskin, too,” she requested after consideration, and the cook obeyed without questioning her further.

Her pack bulging with food, she made her way through the dark, familiar corridors of The Twins. She succeeded at avoiding her least favourite cousins, but she made the mistake of walking through the Great Hall where her father and his kin were drinking. There was some angry yelling involved when Father realized she was wearing a pair of his breeches, but she was saved by Aunt Wynafrei offering him another cup of wine. Crisis averted, she headed straight for the chambers she shared with her sisters.

Uncle Danwell and Aunt Wynafrei were some of the few she would truly miss were she to leave her family home. While Meryll’s father was vastly unimpressed by his fourth daughter (she was supposed to have been a son, afterall), Uncle Danwell and Aunt Wynafrei had no children of their own and had always treated Meryll kindly. She had even received her first bow from Uncle Danwell.

Walda glanced up from her letters when Meryll entered the room. “Mother would have a fit if she saw what you were wearing,” she chided, turning her nose up at Meryll’s tunic and ill-fitting breeches. But Mother was wasn’t here to see what Meryll was wearing. Walda would soon be gone as well and it would be just Meryll in these bedchambers that she had shared with her sisters since birth.

“Has your Lord Husband responded to any of your letters yet?” Meryll asked out of spite, annoyed by Walda’s comment about her clothing. Walda had faithfully written to her new husband every single evening since their wedding night. Her sister shook her head stubbornly. “He’s busy, Meryll, he’s at war. But he’s promised to take me back to the Dreadfort as soon as the battles are done.”

Though it made little sense to Meryll, Walda actually seemed to care for her strange new husband, even claimed that he had been kind during the bedding, and she was now taking her new role as Lady Bolton very seriously. Meryll moved around the large wooden desk to hug her sister and kiss her cheek.

“I will be leaving soon as well,” she said. Walda nodded distractedly, and started writing again. “I may not come back this time,” Meryll warned.

“Oh Meryll, you always come back,” Walda said without looking up. It was true. Meryll had threatened to run away on many occasions, starting at a very young age, but each time, she had returned. If she crossed the Narrow Sea, would she ever return? And if she did, would House Frey be friend or foe? Meryll left Walda to her letters and gathered a few items to stuff into what room was left in her pack.

It was dark when she made her way back through the forest to the old hut, but she had been traversing these paths since she was just a child. The towering trees and bubbling streams were old friends and she wondered if this would be one of the last times she visited them.

Her mind was already made up by the time she reached the hut and emptied the contents of her pack onto the rickety wooden table.

“I do want to come with you,” she said to Ser Barristan, continuing their conversation as if several hours hadn’t passed in between, “but you cannot be my protector. Your chivalry will get us both killed in Essos, where no one cares about knights or honour. We’ll travel as companions, watching each others’ backs. And if and when we find this Viserys Targaryen, I will decide if he’s worthy of your service.”


	4. Chapter 3

# Chapter Three

Barristan was sitting at the wooden table in the dim light of a single candle when Lady Meryll returned and announced her intentions.

After she had departed earlier, he had briefly considered leaving in the night before she returned. It would have been a kindness to her. The journey would not be easy- many days of travelling, rough travelling- for he dared not stop at an inn or tavern. And that was just to get to a port city. After that would be the crossing, and then the strange and dangerous lands in the east. It would not be safe for a woman. Something she had said earlier gave him pause, however. Her father meant to pair her with a man _strong-handed enough to keep her in line_. In other words, a man who would not hesitate to beat all the spirit out of the her. And so Barristan had waited for her return.

He could not help but smile, recalling the headstrong and defiant Lady Meryll he had met a year prior. She was different now, more jaded, perhaps, and there was a bitterness that laced her tones when she spoke of her family, but that fierce determination remained. And she had shown him a great kindness, letting him stay here despite the risk to herself and her house. She had thought it was due to distrust that he had not immediately shared his plans with her, but she had been mistaken. He had meant to keep her safe by not sharing any more information than she needed to know. For now she was guilty of treason as well, as she was aiding and abetting a known fugitive.

It had never been his intention to seek her out, but he had been on the run for several weeks already when he reached the crossing, and thought perhaps he could trust the young woman who hated King Joffrey so much. Barristan had not been wrong to trust her, but he had not ever considered that she might want to come with him. At the same time, a companion on the road would not be unwelcome.

“I accept your terms, my lady,” he said with a nod and rose to pull out her chair for her.

 

 

Meryll’s eyes danced with amusement as the knight stood to pull her chair out for her. She took her seat graciously though she could not ever remember a time when she had witnessed such fine etiquette. She was surprised that Barristan had agreed so readily to her terms rather than insisting that she be _under his protection_. She had never needed anyone to protect her, and she didn’t intend to start now. Though, he was certainly up to the task.

She waited a moment for Ser Barristan to start eating before realizing with that he was waiting for _her_ to start. A small smile curled her lips as she reached for a heel of bread. Certainly she had never experienced such behaviour at any meal at the Twins, and Ser Barristan’s knightly mannerisms seemed antithesis to the simple meal of bread, cheese and wine they were about to eat.

“The journey will not be easy,” he said, taking the bread she passed to him. “I cannot chance the risk of being recognized, so we will not be able to take shelter in the villages.”

Meryll nodded. She had spent many a night sleeping in the woods but never had she taken a journey as long as this one would be. “Where do we sail from?” she asked.

He swallowed before answering. “I had been thinking White Harbour, but perhaps Gulltown would be better. Easier travelling for you, my lady.”

Meryll frowned. She didn’t want him to alter his plans on her account, but in all honesty, had the decision been up to her, she would have chosen to sail from Gulltown as well. The lands between the Twins and White Harbour were swampy and wet, and with the coming winter, it would be a hard journey indeed. But if she was holding him back, she felt like she should have something to offer to ease his way.

“I have coin stashed under the floorboards,” she said, standing and kicking at a spot where the worn planks of wood didn’t meet quite so neatly at the corners. It was prize money from winning the archery contest at the last tourney, and since she had been disguised as a mystery knight when she was presented with her winnings, she hadn’t been able to flaunt her coin around her kin. “It should be more than enough to secure passage across the sea.”

Ser Barristan accepted the small bag of coins with a furrowed brow. “Do I want to know where you got this?”

“I didn’t steal it if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said, sitting back down.

Barristan nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer. “The two of us could likely pass as a noblewoman travelling with her servant,” he continued. “It would be good if you had a proper dress, however,” he said, with a pointed look at her breeches.

Meryll sighed. Days upon days of hard travel, and in a dress, no less. “I have a change of clothes here,” she said, nodding toward the wooden trunk. “I’m sure I can find something suitable.”

“And I think it best you leave the sword behind.”

Despite his diplomatic choice of words, he used a tone of voice that she imagined to be his Lord-Commander-of-the-Kingsguard voice, a tone that left little room for argument.

She stared. “How will we defend ourselves?” she asked indignantly.

His tone softened somewhat. “You can bring along a dagger but truly our best defense is to remain inconspicuous. A noblewoman wearing breeches and armed to the teeth is quite the opposite of that.”

Meryll began to protest but Barristan stopped her with a raised hand. “If you are going to travel with me, you will need to trust in my ability to keep us safe. I fought off the city watch with only a dagger. We will be fine.”

He made a valid point. The man’s entire life had been devoted to protecting people.

Meryll sighed, realizing she likely would not be allowed to bring her bow either. They ate in silence for a time before Ser Barristan spoke again.

“You said before that you would decide if Viserys was worthy of my service. How will you know, my lady?”

Meryll looked closely at his face, trying to discern whether he was teasing or indulging her, or if he actually wanted to know. She saw no sign of guile, but she took her time answering. She poured two cups of wine, realizing as she was pouring that she didn’t even know if Ser Barristan drank wine. She knew very little of the man, other than what she had read in her story books. But he had been kind. He was known for his honour. And she had always been an excellent judge of character.

It was a lesson learned young at the Twins. One might assume that they can trust their family members, but at the Twins where every descendant was trying to find a way to win favour in Lord Walder’s eyes, family ties were weakened. She learned very quickly to treat kindness with caution, as the motivations behind it were not always so altruistic.

She pushed a cup toward him. “I’ll just know,” she said with an enigmatic air. “No doubt he has already gathered an army and servants,” she continued. “I would watch how he treated those beneath him … and whether he was too quick to draw blood.” Meryll paused before adding, “or not quick enough.”

Ser Barristan nodded thoughtfully. “You trust your instincts then?”

She grinned. “I have very good instincts about people, Ser Barristan. I knew Joffrey was a worthless brat the moment I laid eyes upon him, and now look, he has branded the greatest knight in Westeros a traitor to the crown.” Her smile died on her face when she realized Ser Barristan did not share her humour regarding the situation. “Apologies, ser. My comments were in poor taste.”

He did not speak, and instead seemed to suddenly take great interest in the table’s wooden surface. Meryll’s better judgement told her this was not something the knight was ready to speak about but she reached out to lay a hand on his linen-swathed arm regardless. “What happened?”

Ser Barristan met her eyes briefly before looking away and gently removing her hand from his arm. “It matters not, child,” he said quietly.

Whether it was his refusal to share with her or his referring to her as a child that bothered her more, her reaction was swift and vehement.

“I am _not_ a child!”

 

 

Barristan had only meant to avoid the subject of his dismissal, and it certainly had not been his intention to anger her. It had been a term of affection more than a comment on her age, though she _was_ young, there was no getting around that. Though he would have liked to smile at the irony of her childish reaction, he suspected it would do nothing to diffuse the situation. Instead, he raised one eyebrow and gave her a look of complete and utter contempt.

She glared back at him for only an instant before she also seemed to realize the irony of the situation. A small, reluctant smile crossed her lips, and then she suddenly sat taller. “Well, it’s true. Despite my occasional childish outburst, I am a woman grown.”

Yes, he supposed she was. She had changed since he first met her, and not just in her demeanour. She looked more a woman now in her men’s breeches and tunic than she had in her gown a year prior. And if they were to be travelling companions, he would need to treat her as a fellow adult, an equal, and not a child to be chastised and reprimanded.

“My apologies, a slip of the tongue, I’m afraid.” He drained what was left in the bottom of his cup. “But the hour grows late, my lady. You should sleep. We will not experience even meager comforts such as these for many days now. I will take the first watch.”

Somehow he was not surprised when she immediately suggested the opposite. “No, ser,” she argued, ”you have been on the road for many weeks already and will need your rest. _I_ will take the first watch. I don’t think I will be able to sleep anyway.”

He could have insisted but it seemed that Lady Meryll’s stubbornness rivaled even his own, and it likely was not worth an argument. “Very well,” he acquiesced. He stood and helped her wrap up what was left of the food- they would need it for the journey to come.

Barristan nearly made an audible sound of pleasure as he stretched out on the thin bedroll. Luxurious it was not, but after nights of sleeping on the ground, its padded comfort was a welcome change. He did not think he would be able to sleep any more than Lady Meryll, and he seemed to need less and less sleep these days, but it would be good to rest his eyes.

He must have been more tired than he thought, because the next thing he knew, the early light of the morning was starting to peek through the cracks in the stacked log walls. He sat up to see Lady Meryll valiantly trying to stay awake, her head nodding over the book in her hands. Sometime during the night she had changed into a dress, and he was pleased to see it was heavy and wool and would keep her warm on the road. The large wooden trunk lay open at her feet, books and articles of clothing strewn on the floor. He rose and laid his hands on her shoulders. “My lady, you let me sleep too long. You must rest as well.” It seemed she was half asleep already but he was able to guide her to the bedroll. She immediately curled up on her side and was asleep within seconds.

Barristan picked through her mess on the floor, sorting the items into piles of what they would and would not need. He folded her discarded breeches and tunic and packed them away in the chest and then set aside a fur-lined winter-weight cloak. He carefully placed her sword belt and scabbard in the chest, thankful she was asleep and unable to protest. He glanced at the books briefly before tossing them into the chest. _Seduced by a Pirate, The Magister’s Willing Slave, Scandal in the Sept_ — romance novels, all. _A Knight and His Lady_. That one sounded tolerable, at least. He threw it in with the rest. He reached for the book left on the table, the one she had been reading while keeping watch. _Ninepenny Hero_. ‘Based on the true story of Ser Barristan Selmy’, it said in smaller letters below the title. Curious, he flipped through the pages, reading a line here and there. It appeared to be a highly romanticized accounting of his involvement in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. He chuckled softly when he came across a paragraph of prose describing his appearance as a young knight.

> _Ser Barristan Selmy was tall, handsome and muscled like a maiden’s fantasy. His eyes were as blue as the sky on a clear summer day, and he had an elegant mouth, quick to curve into a graceful smile. His forehead was strong, his nose masculine perfection, and his jawline sharp. Locks as golden as the wheat sheaves his home was known for framed his face. When he spoke, his words were ever gallant, and his voice was a pleasant but commanding baritone._

"Gods be good, is this what the young ladies are reading about me?" he muttered to himself. He skipped to the final pages of the book, wondering if it had a happy ending at least.

> _After receiving the thanks of his King, Ser Barristan the Bold returned home to Harvest Hall to marry his betrothed._

_Ah, yes._ That had been the plan, certainly. He still had fond memories of returning home from the war and kissing his betrothed, Lady Caitrin of House Ashford, in the autumn wheat fields of his ancestral lands. He broke her heart a fortnight later when a letter from Ser Gerold Hightower arrived inviting him into the ranks of the Kingsguard. Barristan broke his father’s heart that day as well, and they had argued well into the night. Barristan was the only child of Lyonel Selmy, and to join the Kingsguard meant giving up all claim to Harvest Hall. But Barristan left for Kings Landing the next day, and his cousin married Lady Caitrin and eventually became Lord of Harvest Hall.

Barristan smiled ruefully and placed the book back on the table. Meryll had already packed up the food in her bag, so there wasn’t much else to do. Barristan left the hut, backtracking to a small stream they had passed on the way. There, he washed the dirt and grime from his hands and face. It was a wonder that Lady Meryll had recognized him at all. His hair, which had always been kept neatly cropped close to his skull had now grown out, and his beard was a thick mass of white. He did not feel at all like himself, especially in the thin rags- he longed for the comforting weight of his scaled armour and heavy white cloak. He sat there for a time, refilling his waterskin and then sharpening the blade of his dagger.

When the sun was higher in the sky, Barristan returned to the crofter’s hut and woke Meryll. She blinked at him bleary-eyed but she eventually stood and straightened her skirts. Barristan handed her the fur-lined cloak. “This will keep you warm on these cool autumn nights, my lady.”

 

 

Meryll accepted the winter cloak and fastened it around her shoulders. She looked to where her woolen cloak hung over the back of a chair. “You should wear my other cloak, Ser Barristan. It is more suitable for a servant of a noble house than the one you are wearing,” she said, nose wrinkling slightly at the soiled and ragged garment.

Ser Barristan donned her green woolen cloak, but not before carefully removing the twin towers brooch that was the sigil of House Frey. He placed it in the chest with the rest of her belongings and Meryll couldn’t help but see it as a symbolic gesture, leaving the Twins behind.

Meryll excused herself, heading down to the nearby stream to make her preparations for the day. She rinsed her mouth out with water from the stream, delightfully cold in the morning chill, and then rebraided her hair. She lingered longer than needed, recalling the happy times spent along this stream playing with her kin- games of Lord of the Crossing with Olyvar and Alesander, fishing with Uncle Danwell and searching for shiny stones with Walda and Marissa.

“Have you changed your mind?”

Meryll jumped at the sound of Ser Barristan’s voice. _Gods, the man moved silently as a cat._ She stood, brushing the dirt from her dress. “No, ser, I’m ready to go.” She reached to take her pack from him, but he shook his head and waved her hand away. _They could take his white cloak away, but he would remain a knight to the end._ Meryll said one last silent farewell to her home and then they departed, heading south along the Green Fork.


	5. Chapter 4

# Chapter Four

It took nearly a week of travel for Meryll’s excitement to wear off. They had stayed off the main roads so the going was sometimes rough, and Ser Barristan set a hard pace, no doubt eager to get away from Westeros and the bounty on his head. Meryll had enjoyed his quiet companionship in those first few days, a welcome change from the bickering of her sisters and cousins back at the Twins. But with the adrenaline gone, she was suddenly achingly aware of the hardships of so many days on the road.

She was tired and cold. Hungry.  _Cranky_. And her feet hurt. They had been walking for days on end, and they were only halfway to Gulltown. The nights were cold, but Ser Barristan would not take the risk of having a fire and being seen. And so their meals consisted of stale bread and water from the stream. In the dark of the night, Meryll could see the light of Darry’s watchtower in the distance. “Perhaps just one night in town, ser,” she pleaded, but the knight was adamant they stay off the main roads.

“But it’s House  _Darry_ \- my mother is there, and my sister as well,” she tried, aware that she was whining like a petulant child. She turned and started off toward the beckoning light. It called to her with its promise of a warm bed, a decent meal and a conversation with someone other than the stoic knight. “Besides, they were House Targaryen sympathizers during the Rebellion, we can trust them.”

She had scarcely taken two steps toward civilization when Ser Barristan picked her up and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain and turned back the way they’d come from.  _Back into the cold wilderness_. Meryll fought a bit – kicking and flailing her arms – but she was no match for the knight’s stubbornness. And then it occurred to her that at least she didn’t have to  _walk_ anymore. And it was warmer too. But as soon as the cover of the woods surrounded them, he set her back on her feet.

Ser Barristan reprimanded her like a naughty child. “It was your decision to come along on this journey, my lady. I warned you it would not be easy. If you wish to go to Darry, you can, but I will not come with you and our paths will part here.”

Meryll was too exhausted to be angry and only felt embarrassed about her foolish behaviour. She pulled her cloak tighter around herself and mumbled an apology. She understood Ser Barristan’s reasons for staying off the main roads and avoiding inns and taverns, but would it be such a bad thing to have just a small fire? She didn’t dare voice her thoughts and when they finally stopped to rest, it was a cold and sleepless night. The nights that followed were colder yet.

 

 

Once they had passed the Crossroads, their path turned east to the coast. In the lands surrounding the vale, it seemed winter was well on its way, and each day that took them higher up into the mountains was colder than the last. Barristan had taken the first watch of the night, but it was impossible to simply sit and wait the night out. He paced around the small clearing where they set up their camp, trying to stay warm.

Lady Meryll lay shivering on a pile of leaves, her face completely hidden by the cloak wrapped snugly around her. She hadn’t uttered a single word of complaint since they passed the lights of Darry, but he knew she was miserable. And he was miserable knowing she was miserable. _I should never have allowed her to come along._

In the few moments before sunrise, Barristan grew weary and finally took a seat under the shelter of a towering pine. The first bits of sunlight coloured the sky in a wash of lavender and Lady Meryll soon stirred from sleep. She rose stiffly from her nest of leaves and tried to speak, but her teeth were chattering too hard for Barristan to make out the words. He could only assume she was telling him it was her turn to take watch. He shook his head, and simply raised his arm, his cloak with it, and if he had not been so damned cold, he would have laughed at the speed at which she dove under his cloak, accepting his offer of shared warmth.

Despite his better judgement, he let Meryll sleep longer as he did not have the heart to wake her once she finally stopped shivering. And he slept a few fitful hours himself. _This is madness_ , he thought upon waking. He knew they would not be able to avoid a campfire another night. Freezing to death seemed a poor way to go. _Better to die with a sword in hand, fighting any bandits drawn to the light of a campfire._ But he had more than his own safety to consider now.

The sun rose in the sky bringing a blessed warmth to cut through the chill of the air as they set off once again. Lady Meryll, though always quiet in the first few hours of the day, seemed despondent, her eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. The mountain path had been a hard climb over the past few days, but finally they turned round a bend and the path began to descend.

“I believe we have passed the worst of it, my lady. It will get warmer as we head back down,” Barristan said, trying to cheer her up. She merely nodded and continued trudging ahead, increasing her pace. He thought of calling her back, of telling her to slow down and pace herself, but perhaps she had the right of it. _The sooner we get off this mountain, the better._  

Late in the afternoon, the winding path took them close to a quickly flowing stream, and Barristan slowed to examine the water’s surface. “Do you think there are fish in here?” he asked. Lady Meryll was already several feet past him but she turned with an impatient look on her face.

“Of course, it’s brown trout spawning season,” she said in a tone indicating that he would have to be a complete idiot not to have known that.

Barristan grinned. “Ah yes, I forgot I was travelling with a girl from the Riverlands. Do you think we could catch one?” His smile widened when he saw the beginnings of interest spark in her eyes.

“Probably,” she said with a shrug, “but I’m not so desperate to be willing to eat raw trout.”

“Not yet, anyway,” he heard her mutter under her breath.

“I was thinking perhaps we could have a fire this evening,” Barristan mentioned casually.

And that was all it took.

“I’ll need your staff,” she said, and was rummaging in the backpack before he had even a chance to remove it. With a triumphant gleam in her eye, Lady Meryll held up a ball of twine and a silver fishing hook. Within moments she had rigged up a make-shift fishing rod with his staff and the items from her pack. When she started scrambling over the rocks and boulders bordering the stream, he could not help but to call out a warning.

“Don’t fall in, you’ll never be warm again even with a fire!”

His concern was met with an exasperated sigh and roll of her eyes.

When she found a suitable rock to sit on, Barristan climbed down to join her. She let the hook dangle into the water, and then they waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

Every once in awhile, Barristan saw a glint of bronze under the churning water. The trout were there, that was certain, but they weren’t biting. “Perhaps a different approach, my lady?” he dared ask, holding his hand out for the staff. Her mood must have improved tenfold because she handed it over without protest. Barristan undid the neatly knotted twine and handed the hook back to Lady Meryll. He then pulled out his dagger and wound the twine round and round, lashing the blade to the end of his staff.

“A spear!” Lady Meryll exclaimed with delight.

Barristan stood on the rock, eyes intent on the water, and when he next saw a flash of scales, he thrust the staff downward with a sharp jab.

...and came up with a furiously wriggling plump brown trout.

“Impressive, for a _boy from the Dornish Marches_ ,” Meryll teased.

The fish made a few last half-hearted twitches before finally lying still. “I’m confident you would have eventually caught one as well, my lady,” Barristan said kindly, climbing up from the water’s edge and then turning to offer her a hand up. “Perhaps even before winter came and the stream froze over.”

She laughed good-naturedly but ignored his offer of assistance. “I believe you just made a joke, Ser Barristan.”

“Yes, even a Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is permitted to occasionally have a sense of humour,” he said, deadpan. “ _Former_ Lord Commander,” he corrected himself quietly. Even after all this time, it seemed strange to say. Because before him, there had never been a _former_ Lord Commander. _Only dead ones._

Lady Meryll gave him a searching look and there was something a little too close to pity in her eyes. He turned his back to her, moving off the path and into the thicket in search of suitable place to strike a camp. 

 

 

Meryll followed Ser Barristan into the bush. Even after spending so much time in close quarters, he still was not comfortable talking about his dismissal from the Kingsguard. She didn’t press the matter, but helped him gather wood and kindling to start a fire. Once the flames were roaring, she sat quietly on the ground, enjoying the warmth. _Gods, I thought I would never be warm again,_ she thought, rubbing her hands together _._ She should have offered to cook the fish, she realized, noticing too late that Ser Barristan was holding the spit much too close to the flames. He apologized when he handed her a bowl of slightly blackened trout but she was too hungry to care.

Meryll picked off some of the charred bits and happily ate the perfectly cooked flaky flesh beneath. “We feast like kings this evening, Ser Barristan,” she said between bites. He indulged her with a smile but nothing more. They finished the simple meal in silence and it wasn’t until Meryll rose to gather their bowls and cups that Ser Barristan finally spoke.

“I was dismissed from the Kingsguard on account of my _advanced age_.”

Meryll sat back down and waited a moment to see if he would go on, but he only stared into the fire, his handsome face grim and shuttered. “That’s ridiculous,” she told him. “Ser Duncan the Tall was nearly seventy when he died at Summerhall.”

Ser Barristan nodded. “I had the same thought. And the Lord Commander has always served until death.”

“Perhaps they had someone else in mind for the position,” she offered. “A man loyal to the Lannisters, no doubt.”

But Ser Barristan didn’t seem to hear her. “Three kings died under my watch, my lady,” he said.

“King Jaeherys died of illness,” Meryll said, frowning. “Even _your_ skill with a blade cannot fight off disease or natural cause. And as for King Aerys, well, perhaps it was a blessing that you were not in the Throne Room that day.”

When he looked up, he had a haunted look in his eyes. “It is not King Aerys’ death that keeps me awake at night so much as Prince Rhaegar’s. I could not stop him from fighting Robert in single-combat. I watched as my prince died.”

Meryll could not bear to see him so shamed. “By all accounts, you fought valiantly at the Trident, ser. You are still only one man. A better man than most, but you bleed the same as any other. And you were not the only Kingsguard there that day. Do you blame Prince Lewyn or Ser Gerold for Rhaegar’s death? Or only yourself?”

He stared at her a long time before giving her a begrudging smile. “You know your history well, Lady Meryll.”

“I read a lot,” Meryll said with a shrug.

“I can only hope you didn’t learn your history from _Ninepenny Hero_.”

She laughed and it eased her heart to see some of Ser Barristan’s grief lifted, if only temporarily. “It was a terrible book,” she admitted.

“But still you read it.”

_Many times, in fact._

“It was a favourite of mine when I was little. Too young to know better, I suppose,” Meryll said. 

Ser Barristan rubbed his forehead, suddenly looking weary. “I’m afraid most of what you think you know of me is likely fiction.”

 _I much prefer the real-life version_ , she longed to tell him. She reached out to put her hand on his shoulder, making sure she had his full attention so he could see the sincerity of her words. “Ser, if even a tenth of what is written in that book is true, then Joffrey was a fool to let you go.”

Ser Barristan shook his head. “That war was nearly forty years ago— I was a young man then.”

“Still, you are worth a thousand Ser Boros or Ser Meryns,” she said, squeezing his shoulder before letting go. He acknowledged the compliment with a slight bow of his head, being far too humble a man to offer much more. “Were you there that day, when the boar took Robert?” she asked, wondering if he blamed himself for that as well.

“I was, my lady. The man had more courage than sense, especially when he was deep in his cups. He was too stubborn to listen to anyone, and thought too highly of his own fighting skills to ever let the Kingsguard properly protect him. He was a fine knight in his day. Terrible king, though, especially in those last few years.” Ser Barristan trailed off then, and looked troubled. Meryll waited for him to work through whatever inner demons he was battling. “I should never have accepted Robert’s pardon,” he said, doubt clouding his features.

Meryll scoffed. “And then what? You’d be dead. What good would that have been?”

“I am not certain Robert would have executed me,” he argued. “I could have chosen exile.”

“You delude yourself, ser,” Meryll said, shaking her head. “Robert was no fool. Do you really think it wouldn’t have occurred to him that you would be spending your time in exile protecting and nurturing the next generation of the Targaryen dynasty? _Not a chance_. Best outcome, you would have been sent to the Wall.”

Ser Barristan glared at her but she kept her gaze steady until he finally looked away. _The truth is a bitter pill to swallow._

A short, mirthless laugh escaped his lips. “You make it impossible for an old man to wallow.”

“You are _not_ an old man. And wallowing is not an attractive look for you, Ser Barristan.”

When he met her eyes with an utterly humourless stare, Meryll wondered if she had gone too far, but then he stood and picked up the dishes she had abandoned earlier. “Take your rest now while the fire still burns hot, my lady,” he said, his face turned away from her. “I will not be adding any more wood to the flames.”

Meryll slept like a baby that night in the warmth of the fire. Like always, it was the rising sun that awakened her and not Ser Barristan. She sometimes wondered if he would just let her sleep the entire night through if she didn’t wake on her own. And then when he did take his rest at her insistence, it was fitful, and he always rose long before she would have woken him.

In the morning, Ser Barristan was warm and congenial, not showing any sign of resentment from their earlier discussion. If anything, he seemed at peace and the troubled look that had so often marked his face over the past week was nowhere to be seen. It helped too that their path was easier now, entirely downhill, and the sun was warm on their faces.

Much of the trail through the mountains had been under tree cover, with tall, sentinel pine trees surrounding them at all times, and so on the third day of their descent when they finally emerged from the forest onto a cliff overlooking the Bay of Crabs, Meryll stood in awe. The sun was bright, glinting and glittering off the water, and when she looked over the edge of the cliff, she could see the waves crashing onto the rocks several yards below.

The sea was just as grand as Meryll had remembered. There were parts of the Trident where the opposite shore was difficult to see, but not like this, where the waters just went on and on and on as far as the eye could see. And somewhere across all that water was Essos, and the last of the Targaryens.

She glanced over at Ser Barristan, hoping he hadn’t noticed the way she was standing mouth agape like a starry-eyed child.

“Have you never seen the sea before, Lady Meryll?” he asked, joining her at the cliff’s edge.

“I have, though it has been many years, and on the opposite coast. Father and I visited Seagard to negotiate a trade agreement for Lord Grandfather. I must have been 13 or so.” She smiled at the memory. “I thought it was the most magical place ever, and I begged father to marry me to Lord Jason Mallister.”

“Lord Jason?” Ser Barristan repeated. “A valiant knight. I competed against him in many tournaments. But I think you mean _Patrek_ Mallister, his son.”

Meryll laughed, remembering the gangly, cocksure young man of similar age to her. “Heavens, no. Patrek was insufferable. We were out for an evening walk along the pier and he—” Meryll stopped abruptly, realizing this was not a particularly appropriate discussion to be having with Ser Barristan. He looked at her expectantly.

“He tried to take certain … _liberties_ … but I … stopped him,” she finished lamely.

“The boy _dishonoured_ you?”

Ser Barristan’s eyes, normally so gentle, flashed in anger and he was close enough that Meryll could feel the muscles in his arm tense in response. She rushed to correct him lest he march all the way across Westeros to Seagard to seek justice in her name.

“No, he did not _dishonour_ me. We were kissing and he kept trying to stick his hand down my dress so I pushed him off the pier.” She blushed a bit at recounting such a personal story, though she was relieved when her honesty served its purpose and the knight chuckled. “In any case,” she continued quickly, “I was much more enamored with his father. Lord Jason was a perfect knight - honourable and courteous - and tall and handsome too.”

“Ah, like me, then.”

Meryll had to check to see if Ser Barristan was joking, and yes, his eyes twinkled with mirth. There was not a chance in seven hells she was going to admit to him that half the reason she had liked Lord Jason so much was that he resembled how she imagined Ser Barristan might be. She laughed. “Yes, I suppose so. Although, Lord Mallister had no qualms about keeping the hearth fires in his Great Hall lit at all times and he served a hot meal each evening.”

“I do believe I served you a delicious supper of charred trout just a few nights ago,” he reminded her with a nudge of his elbow.

“A meal I will remember until my dying day, ser,” she said truthfully.

He offered her his arm. “Come, my lady. It would ease my heart to be off this mountain by dark.”

 _I will never tire of this knightly chivalry_ , she thought, accepting his arm before they continued down the mountain path.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The house words for House Frey in this chapter ("We Take Our Toll") come from Good Queen Alysanne's Tumblr series House Words Wednesdays. As well, the title of this fic "What Storms May Blow" is taken from the house words that she chose for House Selmy. If you haven't checked out her series, it's worth a look. She puts a lot of thought and research into each house's words. http://goodqueenaly.tumblr.com/

# Chapter Five

The noises and smells of the port city were an assault on Meryll’s senses after so many quiet days on the road. Though much smaller than Oldtown or King’s Landing, it was still the biggest city Meryll had ever been to, and she stared in wonder at the all of the new sights around her: people from far away places speaking languages she didn’t recognize, merchants selling shiny baubles and trinkets, and giant ships that appeared to hold more people than a small village.

There was no avoiding the busy crowds in Gulltown, an important hub for merchant ships travelling to and from the capital, but in a way, it was good it was so crowded — all the better to blend in. Meryll was to be a noblewoman travelling with her house steward, looking for passage to Pentos. Barristan was eager to get out of Westeros, and so they headed straight for the docks.

“How do we know which ships are sailing to Pentos?” she asked Barristan, pulling her hood up over her hair.

“You’ll have to ask,” he said, handing her a small bag of coins. “The less people I talk to, the better. I will stay hidden for the time being, and will leave this task in your capable hands.”

The docks were crowded and noisy, with fisherman selling their catch, beggers looking for handouts, men loading heavy crates into rowboats, and other travellers like herself, looking for passage. Meryll stopped one of the young boys who ran messages from ship to shore and inquired about any ships destined for Pentos.

“Aye m’lady, one that I know of. You’ll find the Moonrunner at the far end of the harbour,” the sun-freckled boy said politely before running off.

The boy spoke true and Meryll found the Moonrunner docked at the east end of the harbour. It was less busy at this far end of the docks, and there were only a few sailors talking quietly with a man who could only have been the captain. Meryll introduced herself as Lady Meryll of House Wode and learned that he was a Pentoshi captain named Groleo. When she inquired about purchasing passage to Pentos, he frowned for a second.

“The Moonrunner is not truly a passenger vessel, but I’m sure we could find quarters for a lady and her servant,” he allowed. He named a sum of silvers and Meryll counted out the coins for him. She asked when he planned on sailing and he said the morning after the next.

Meryll only hesitated for a split second before pressing a gold coin into the captain’s hand. “Any chance we could leave on the morrow instead?”

Captain Groleo gave her a long, assessing look, no doubt wondering why a Lady from a house of landed knights would be in such a hurry to cross the Narrow Sea, and why it was worth the value of a gold dragon. “I think that could be arranged,” he said, not giving voice to the questions he no doubt had.

Meryll turned back toward the busy marketplace of the docks and tried to spot Ser Barristan, but in his hooded brown cloak, he was nearly impossible to spot in the crowd. She assured the Captain that her companion would be there shortly, and Groleo nodded and turned away to continue speaking with his sailors. It was only a few moments later that she saw Ser Barristan, hood pulled low over his face, walking toward her.

“We sail at dawn,” she told him, and looked at him with a frown. He still looked the beggar, and not a servant of a noble house. “We’ll need to find somewhere to pass the night, and some better clothes for you.”

They moved away from the waterfront, further inland to the Merchant Quarter of Gulltown. Barristan began looking for a suitable establishment to wait out the dawn. He finally settled on a small inn in a respectable part of the city. “It will be costlier to stay in this neighbourhood but I don’t suspect anyone would bother looking for me here,” he explained. The common room was quiet and cozy with only a few guests.

Meryll dropped a coin in the Innkeeper’s hand. “A room for the night.” The Innkeeper handed her a key along with directions, and Meryll passed the key to Barristan, along with a haughty incline of her head toward the staircase. He took the hint and went directly up to the room. _The sooner he was out of sight, the better._

And then she added a second coin to the Innkeeper’s hand. “For your discretion.”

The Innkeeper’s fingers closed around the coins and he nodded with a smirk. “Certainly, my lady. My lips are sealed.” Whether he thought she was closing some sort of black market deal, or meeting up with a lover for a clandestine tryst, it mattered not. Whatever he was thinking was safer than the truth.

Meryll eyed the Innkeeper. He was of Ser Barristan’s height, if not a bit narrower in the shoulder, and definitely wider in the midsection, but close enough. “I will need clean clothing for my servant— perhaps you have something appropriate? And a hot meal would be greatly appreciated– we’ve been on the road for quite some time.” Her stomach growled at the thought.

A few moments later, she was heading up the stairs, spare set of tunic and breeches in hand, the Innkeeper following behind with a tray of barley stew and ale. She could only hope that Barristan had started a fire, third on her wish list only after their safety and a decent meal.

 

 

“Did you pay him off?” Barristan asked after the innkeeper left.

“Of course,” Meryll said, handing him a pile of folded clothes. He nodded approvingly. She had proved her worth since arriving in Pentos. She had claimed to have good instincts with people, and he had no choice but to believe her. Certainly, she had an easy way with the common folk, and a trustworthy face, which would ease their way considerably.

The stew was hearty and flavourful, but most importantly, _hot_. Barristan enjoyed the simple meal and Meryll’s pleasant companionship. She was quieter now than when they started their journey together, and he supposed it was because she was more comfortable with him, and felt less need to fill all of the silences.

After they finished eating, Meryll moved to the hearth, sitting on the floor in front of the fire. He thought it was probably best that she would be departing for Essos just as winter was approaching. He couldn’t imagine her being terribly happy at the Twins when the land was frozen over. The last winter had been nearly twenty years ago, he recalled, unsure if Meryll would have even experienced a winter in her lifetime. Certainly, she would have been too young to remember much of it.

Barristan picked up the pile of clean clothing and unfolded the tunic on top.

“You can just burn those old rags,” Meryll said without turning away from the fire. Her nose wrinkled delicately.

“Are you saying that I smell bad, my lady?” he asked, pulling off his threadbare tunic.

A small laugh. “I would never dream to say such a thing, Ser Barristan,” she said with mock politeness.

Barristan walked over to the hearth and tossed the rags in. He was not unaware of her eyes on him — he probably should have left the room to change, he realized too late. “I’m sorry if my scars bother you,” he said, turning to fetch the clean tunic.

“No!” Meryll replied, almost emphatically. “I just—” she rose from the floor, shaking her head. Her cheeks were pink with embarrassment and he felt bad for calling attention to the way she had been staring. She came closer, one hand lifted.

“Arrow, spear, and sword,” she murmured, pointing to the corresponding scars in sequence. _She was correct._ The arrow had taken him through the upper arm exiting clean through the other side. The spear had been jabbed into his side, just narrowly missing his most vital organs. The sword wound was the one that nearly killed him though. A slash across the chest, not deep, but the wound had festered. It was only thanks to Robert’s maester that he had survived.

Lady Meryll’s eyes were still fixed to his chest, and he had to touch her chin lightly to get her to look at his face. “How could you possibly have known that?” he asked.

She smiled then, and turned to her leather pack. After a bit of rummaging, she handed him a book. He supposed he should not have been surprised.

 _Healing the Wounds of the Trident, a first-hand accounting by Maester Cressen_ , the cover read.

Barristan sat down on the bed, book in hand. It was full of detailed and labelled diagrams showing the locations and impacts of various injuries. “This is quite gruesome, my lady,” he commented, not knowing why this would be the book she chose to bring along.

 

 

Meryll tried not to stare, she really did. “It contains very detailed explanations of how each of the wounds was treated. I thought it might come in handy,” she said, shrugging. She managed to drag her eyes from Ser Barristan’s broad shoulders to his face. He looked almost… _impressed_.

He thought she had been disturbed by his battle scars, but he was mistaken. _Probably best he not know the truth._

The man was beautifully formed — lean and muscled with not a bit of softness. Meryll knew her history well enough to know exactly how many name days Ser Barristan had lived through, and she had uncles of similar age, and certainly none of them had managed to stay so hard and healthy. The old knight looked better than most men of her _own_ age, even. His stomach was still flat, and there was just a light sprinkling of white hair leading from his belly down to the top of his breeches.

“Lady Meryll.”

Flushing, she snatched her gaze back to his eyes, trying not to look entirely mortified. Which she was.

“If you could be so kind as to turn away for a moment,” he said, and she saw he was holding the clean pair of breeches.

_Oh, good heavens._

She turned away immediately, busying herself with piling their dishes back on to the wooden tray. “I’ll take these down to the kitchen,” she said, and nearly ran out the door. There was no need to take the dishes, the inn would of course have servants for such a task, but she needed the time away from the room to gather her senses.

When Meryll returned, Barristan was fully dressed and had pulled a chair over to the fire. He would take the first watch as usual, he informed her, and they would leave at first light.

The bed was small, musty and stuffed with straw — nothing like the feather mattress she had slept in back at the Twins, yet she had no complaints. She lay back, her arms folded behind her head, but sleep did not come right away.

Ser Barristan sat comfortably by the fire, a look of content on his face. He would be used to nights such as this, taking his turn at the night shift to watch over the King. A more prideful Lord Commander likely would have let the other Kingsguard take the less desirable shifts, but something told Meryll that Ser Barristan was not that sort. They would have been long, quiet nights. Life as a Kingsguard struck Meryll as being a very lonely existence.

“Do you ever regret it, ser?” she started, trying to find the right words so not to offend, “Joining the Kingsguard. Do you ever wonder about what your life might have been if you had become Lord of Harvest Hall instead?”

His eyes met hers briefly and then looked back to the fire, almost in resignation. It was as if he knew there was no point telling her to just go to sleep, that she would continue chatting until he answered her questions.

“As a boy, all I ever wanted was to be a knight,” he said, shifting in his chair. “And then after I became a knight, all I thought of was joining the Kingsguard. I’ve always known my purpose — I was born to bear arms, there was never any doubt about it. I would have made a poor Lord, my lady. I don’t have the gift of politicking, and don’t enjoy the idea of sitting at a desk and running a keep. Ser Gerold invited me to Kings Landing a few weeks after I returned home from the War of the Ninepenny Kings. I knew why I was being summoned, I knew what he would ask of me. And I didn’t think twice about it, I left the morning after his raven arrived.” He paused, rubbing his hands together slowly. “I suppose most would not walk away from their family so easily. You and I have that in common, my lady.”

Meryll did not hear regret in his voice, nor even any sentiment. He was an honest man, something about him that she much appreciated, and he spoke plainly of his supposed weaknesses in the same way that he would have talked about his skill in battle or life of service — facts and nothing more.

“I suppose so,” she said, rolling on to her side. “In many ways, you have lived the life of a devoted and successful Lord,” she continued, reflecting on what she knew of the knight’s life. “You led men, commanded them in battle. And your brothers, they were your family- you cared for them, broke bread with them and laughed with them. Your children- all the squires you have trained and nurtured over your lifetime — I imagine there were many — not to mention the countless young men who were inspired to join the knighthood due to your personal example. And for a woman…” she paused, stumped for a moment. And then when the light of the fire flickered over Ser Barristan’s strong and weathered hands, she had her answer. “Well. Your sword, I suppose, as I am sure you shared your bed with it many a night,” she said, smiling into the dim.

He smiled, nodding. “I have often said that my mistress is Duty, but I suppose my sword would do well enough.”

She thought on his earlier words. It _had_ been easy to leave her family. She had moments where she missed her sisters dearly, but never regret.

“Do you know what my house words are, Ser Barristan?” She did not wait for an answer. “ _We take our toll_. When I was younger, it made sense, for that was the source of our wealth, what put food in our bellies— the tolls, collected on the bridge. But now I know it meant more than that. They take, and that is all. That is the viewpoint with which my family views the world around them.”

She laughed, a bitter, harsh sound in the hush of the room. “Even now, I refer to my family as _them_ and not _us_. You must have thought it odd that I would abandon my house and follow you, a man I barely knew, across the sea to a strange land. But Ser Barristan, I’m not sure you have ever taken anything for yourself your entire life. You have devoted yourself to giving, to serving others. That means something to me, enough that I could walk away from my home. A home that never really felt like home, anyway.”

She sighed, trying to find a comfortable spot between the lumpy mattress and scratchy bed linens. “All that to say that I am grateful that you’ve allowed me to share this journey with you. I know your travels would likely have been easier without someone slowing you down, and safer without someone you felt the need to protect.” She chuckled softly. “And certainly quieter without someone talking your ear off.”

Her heart felt lighter, having expressed her gratitude to him — something she hadn’t realized just how much she needed to do — and sleep finally seemed a possibility.

 

 

They sailed at dawn. Barristan stood at the rail, watching as the Seven Kingdoms became smaller and smaller, until it finally disappeared from view. He had lived his entire life in Westeros, and now he did not know if he would ever return. He was old — how many years could he possibly have left? He meant to bring back the rightful heir to the throne, but nothing was certain. Perhaps it would be Lady Meryll who escorted King Viserys back to Westeros in his stead.

He glanced down at her. She had an odd look on her face, and he could only hope it was not regret. _There was no turning back now._

“Come, my lady,” he said, turning away from Westeros. “Let us go see what our quarters below deck are like.”

Meryll was oddly quiet as they descended the stairs into the hold. Their guest cabin was the first door at the bottom of the stairs, and Barristan pushed the door open to reveal a small and dimly lit room. The only light came from a square grate in the ceiling which opened to the deck above. The room contained two single beds on opposite walls and nothing else.

“It looks comfortable enough,” he said idly, turning back to Meryll, but she was gone.

Barristan returned to the deck to find Meryll emptying the contents of her stomach over the ship’s rail. Seasickness, no doubt. Though it would be a long journey if it didn’t subside soon. He attempted to place a comforting hand on her back but she swatted him away.

She turned to him, eyes shiny with unshed tears. “Please ser, this is embarrassing enough as it is. I’d rather be left alone. I’m sure I’ll feel better soon. I just need to adjust to the motion.” She barely finished speaking before leaning over the rail and retching once again.

Barristan didn’t feel right leaving her alone, but wanted to honour her request. He ended up passing the day with Captain Groleo, receiving a tour of the ship and somewhat long-winded explanation of how everything worked, sprinkled with highly embellished tales of his adventures at sea. Barristan checked in on his travelling companion several times throughout the day, but she waved him away each time, seeming increasingly annoyed by his presence.

By the end of the day, he felt he could not in good conscience leave her alone any longer. He found her in the aft of the ship, sitting against the crates of supplies, knees drawn to her chest. Her skin was pallid, and her hair had come loose from its braid, and lay tangled and windblown around her shoulders. Her eyes fluttered open at his approach.

“Evening draws near, you should rest in the cabin below,” he said gently, leaning down to help her up.

The shake of her head was nearly imperceptible, as if she could not bear to move.

“Still nauseous?” he asked but she did not bother with a response. He sympathized. Though he had never been prone to seasickness, there had been times after a battle where he had been ill from blood loss, when even the slightest of movements would make him sick. “Very well. I will be right back.”

Barristan went down to the hold and fetched their cloaks and a fresh waterskin, and when he returned, he thought perhaps she had gone to sleep. But no, she opened her eyes as he approached. He offered the waterskin and she again gave a very slight shake of her head, closing her eyes. After spreading out the fur-lined cloak in front of the crates, Barristan took a seat.

“Please, ser, go sleep in the cabin tonight. You don’t have to give up a real bed for my sake,” Meryll said. She spoke softly, barely moving her lips, and Barristan could just make out her words.

“My lady, you are the only woman on this ship. If you think I am going to leave you out here alone all evening, you are mistaken.”

Barristan leaned his head back on the crate behind him. The sky grew dark but there wasn’t a cloud to be seen, offering a perfect view of the stars and the red comet that had appeared like a wound in the heavens shortly after Ned Stark’s death. In his travels, Barristan had heard many theories on why the comet appeared. Vengeance for Ned Stark, the reign of the Lannisters, a symbol of the waning summer, a sign of impending doom, a herald warning of war. Barristan didn’t think much of signs and portents. People would see what they wanted to see, and so each man had his own truth of what the comet represented.

Barristan’s stargazing was interrupted as Meryll stirred beside him and joined him on the fur cloak. She leaned heavily against his side, her head resting against his shoulder.

The weight of her was pleasant, he thought, almost in surprise at such a revelation. It was something he had never experienced, never even given much thought to, having a woman or child to hold and comfort. Over the years he had protected many people he grew to care for, had even offered words of comfort and kindness, but he was a Kingsguard first and foremost. A household servant of sorts, though with more credentials and prestige. Those who he guarded had their own families and loved ones to turn to, and he had … _his duty_.

Barristan let his hand rest on her head, his fingertips combing through the tangled chestnut waves. She made a small sound and then shifted, pressing closer as if she was trying to burrow into his side. He smiled ruefully, thinking of his bed in the hold below, which would surely be more comfortable than the ship deck. But, he supposed this was not so bad. 

 

 

_She dreamed of home, of her mother singing lullabies and rocking her to sleep._

Meryll opened her eyes to the early light of morning, suddenly remembering where she was. It was not her mother’s rocking chair that she found so distasteful, but the endless rocking and swaying of the ship. And it was not her mother’s warmth she took comfort in, but Ser Barristan’s. She lay on her side on the hard planks of the ship deck, her head resting on a folded cloak in his lap.

The ship lurched, the wooden boards of the hull creaking with the strain of the endless battering from the sea. Meryll groaned softly, stomach roiling. She rolled onto her back, praying the return of her nausea would pass quickly. Barristan looked down at her, face drawn in concern, and smoothed the hair away from her brow. “Would it help to sit up?” he asked.

She thought it might and with his help, came to sitting, but the harsh change in perspective was too much. She dashed for the railing and threw her head over just in time to be sick. It was mostly retching and gagging now that she had nothing else left to throw up, and her muscles ached from the effort.

She could feel Ser Barristan’s presence at her side and heard him fiddling with the waterskin.

“No water,” she managed, waving him away.

He handed her the waterskin anyway. “You don’t need to swallow, just rinse your mouth and spit it out. You’ll feel better.”

Meryll sighed, taking the tiniest sip possible. She nearly gagged at the sensation but exhaled hard through her nose and waited for it to pass. She glared up at Barristan, swishing the water around her mouth before spitting it over the rail.

“It didn’t feel better,” she said, handing him back the waterskin.

She thought he might have laughed a little, but she couldn’t be sure. Then he took a handkerchief from his pocket, and after wetting it, pressed it to her brow. Heavens, _that_ felt good— blessedly cool against her flushed skin.

“I provide you with my best cabin, and you sleep among the supply crates?”

It was Groleo, and his amused smile belied the indignation in his words. He carried a cup full of steaming liquid, and offered it to Meryll. “Courtesy of the ship’s cook,” he said. “A tonic for seasickness.”

Meryll looked at the cloudy yellow concoction doubtfully, sure it would just make her sicker. “I’ll wait until it cools a bit,” she said to the captain, not wanting to seem ungrateful.

“Very well, my lady. And I wish to extend an invitation for you and Arstan to join me in my quarters for supper this evening,” he said, and bowed before he left.

“Arstan?” Meryll repeated, looking up at Ser Barristan.

“Arstan Whitebeard,” he confirmed.

She giggled a bit but was cut off by another wave of nausea. She thrust the hot cup into the Barristan’s hands before leaning over the rail once more.

 

 

Barristan did join Captain Groleo for supper that evening, and each evening after that. Meryll sometimes came as well, sipping at the tonic prepared by the ship’s cook, but most evenings she remained on her little perch in the aft. Groleo was wonderful company, having seen some of the strangest and most remote corners of the world and he had the stories to go with them. Barristan shared stories of Westeros as well, carefully altered to come from the perspective of a lowly squire on the battlefield.

Groleo was a bit rough around the edges, crass at times, but kind, and always treated Lady Meryll with the utmost respect. His crew followed his example and every single one of them was undeniably courteous to the noblewoman, which struck Barristan as evidence of Groleo’s innate leadership skills. Barristan no longer worried about letting Meryll wander around the ship on her own, as all the sailors went out of their way to make sure she was comfortable and safe.

 _Or as much as was possible_. She had refused to set foot in the hold, and had spent the entirety of their journey above deck. And Barristan was not certain she had yet managed to keep down any solid food, though water and broth seemed to be acceptable. Thankfully, the nights grew warmer as they sailed south and east, and the skies were delightfully clear at night, offering an unparalleled view of the stars.

It was their fifth evening at sea, and Barristan and Groleo were about to start eating when they were interrupted by one of the crew. “First mate would like to see you on deck, Cap’n,” the young man said. Barristan followed Groleo out to the deck, and could immediately see why he had been summoned. The wind had completely died down, and the air was eerily still. The sea was calm all around them, gently lapping at the boat. And the sky grew dark and ominous.

“Storm’s comin’,” Groleo muttered to Barristan, and was soon barking orders to the crew. Barristan tried to stay out of the way as the Captain and First Mate discussed a whole matter of things he didn’t understand. The First Mate was in favour of ‘running the wind’, but Groleo was adamant that they should ‘lay ahull’. Once they had come to a decision, Groleo turned his attention to Barristan.

“You’ll want to get our lady below deck. Better seasick than drowned,” the Captain said gravely.

“She may disagree,” Barristan muttered, heading to the aft to find the Lady in question.

She _did_ disagree, vehemently, as it happened. “Can’t I just tie myself in? Isn’t that what the sailors do?” Meryll protested.

“I will carry you down to the hold kicking and screaming if I have to. You are not staying on deck,” he informed her. As if to punctuate his words, a strike of lighting lit up the sky, the crack of thunder following only a few seconds later. And then the rain began.

Barristan took Meryll by the arm and thankfully she did not put up a fight. He left her in the cabin, telling her before he left: “You must trust Groleo and his crew. If they tell you to do something, follow their orders without question. Is that understood?”

 

 

Meryll nodded reluctantly at Ser Barristan and felt a sense of impending doom as she watched him leave. She could hear the rain pelting the deck above, and she tried to stay away from the ceiling grate where it dripped into the cabin. She ended up huddled in a ball on one of the beds, eyes squeezed shut, trying to will it all away. For a time, it was possible to shut it all out, but the storm was gaining in intensity. The wind howled, the hull creaked and groaned at the battering of the angry waves, and the rain coming through the grate had soaked the floor.

Meryll could hear the shouts of the crew above, and the heavy footsteps as they followed their captain’s orders. Occasionally, there would be a loud thump as someone inevitably slipped on the rain-soaked deck. It felt like everyone was doing something but her. She was stuck in this cabin, useless. And… _helpless_.

“Hold on!” she heard Groleo bellow, and an instant later there was a _crack_ as a wave hit the ship and Meryll’s world was turned topsy-turvy. She flew through the air, landing hard on the floor, and water poured in through the grate above. Another wave struck and she was thrown across the cabin once more, hitting the wall. She sat up and realized she was too scared to even feel nauseous anymore. She half sobbed, half laughed at the thought.

She couldn’t see the sky through the grate and the cabin was completely dark. She tried standing twice, but the violent rocking of the ship knocked her off her feet both times. The water continued to come through the grate.

 _Gods, I will drown in this cabin_ , she thought. She crawled along the floor, fingers search for the door. Finally, she was able to close her fingers round the door handle and went tumbling into the hall. Water sloshed back and forth there too, and she dared not try to stand. She continued crawling along the floor, feeling bruised and battered, her soaked skirts dragging her down.

The next obstacle was the stairs. Never had six steps looked so insurmountable.

She stopped counting after the first five attempts to get up the stairs. Each time, a massive wave would hit the ship and the water would pour across the deck, washing down the stairs and sending her tumbling back to the hold below. Each failure only made her more determined, and against all odds, she somehow managed to finally drag herself up to the deck.

It was chaos. The sky was black, and the flashes of lightning provided the only source of visibility, bathing the scene around her in an eerie shade of indigo and violet. She barely heard the cry of warning over the roar of the sea and pelting rain. She looked up with wide eyes to see a wave approaching, looming high above the ship. And then, _mayhem_. She slid down the deck as the ship was turned on one end, water flooding over the deck. She must have screamed then, but she wouldn’t have been able to hear it anyway. Her fingers reached, _grasped_ , trying to grab hold of something, _anything_ , to slow her descent. A rope, but it slipped through her fingers. Slats of wood and other debris, but they were as much at the mercy of the storm as she was. Finally, she slammed into something, or _someone_ , and the ship somehow uprighted itself. She gasped for air and tried to re-orient herself but the waves kept jerking the ship in new directions.

“M’lady, you must return to the hold!”

The somebody that had stopped her descent was a member of the crew, and he took firm hold of her arm and with the help of another crew mate, dragged her back to the stairs. She was exhausted, her limbs as limp as a rag doll’s, and she had no more fight left in her. “Where is Ser Barristan?” she shouted over the din of the storm.

“He’s down in the bilge, pumping water,” one of the sailors yelled. “Don’t worry, m’lady, he’s safe there.” She didn’t believe that anywhere on this gods forsaken ship was safe, but the sailors didn’t seem too worried.

It wasn’t until after the sailors had deposited her in her cabin and left that she realized she had used Barristan’s true name. But Arstan sounded so similar to Barristan, perhaps they didn’t hear the difference.

And where was the bilge? It must be somewhere here in the hold, she reasoned. She made a half-hearted attempt at the door again, but the two crew men had locked her in. Lightning flashed, lighting the cabin for just a second. It suddenly seemed very small, the walls very close, and the sea seemed to be pressing in on all four sides, dark and relentless.

 

 

Sometime in the night, one of the ship’s crew came to relieve Barristan from his post at the bilge pump. Barristan knew not how long he had been labouring at the pump — it could have been a few moments or half the night. But he leaned toward half the night, as his arms ached and felt like they weighed a hundred stone each.

He stumbled up to the hold, struggling to stay on his feet with the heavy rocking of the ship. He had to slowly feel his way down the corridor in the pitch black, counting the doors as he went. As he opened the door to his cabin, another angry wave rocked the ship to what must have been close to its tipping point.

Barristan went sailing through the door and rolled into opposite wall. Water rushed through the grate in the ceiling, though it hardly mattered now, his clothes were long soaked through. The ship rolled back the opposite direction, but Barristan was ready for it this time and stayed low to the ground. He heard the door slam shut and then a small whimper.

“Lady Meryll,” he said into the darkness. “Say something so I can find you, lass.” He thought he heard another sound coming across from the room but couldn’t be sure. Lightning struck with a flash and a loud _crack_ , too close for comfort, but lit the room long enough for him to see the Meryll-sized ball curled up on the floor, clutching on to the bed frame. She was easy to find after that.

Barristan crawled across the floor to her, wrapping his body around hers and holding her tight in his arms. She trembled violently, shaking like a leaf and sobbing with barely a sound. _Good gods, the poor girl had been in here alone all night long._

The old knight murmured soothing things, practical things, told her the crew was a capable and trusty lot and would see them through the storm, that all the sailors were tied in and no one could be thrown overboard, that the storm could not last much longer, that they would arrive in Pentos soon. He told her things until he had no idea what he was even saying any more. And then, when her shaking finally stopped, another rogue wave would turn the ship atilt and he would have to start all over again. On and on the storm persisted, a relentless force, and it seemed the night would never end. _But all nights came to an end eventually, did they not?_

Meryll woke to the sun streaming through the ceiling grate. The ship rocked gently back and forth, and she could hear the sailors moving around on the deck above. She lifted her head, squinting against the bright. She took one look around her and squeezed her eyes shut again. _Holy Seven_. Had they all died in the storm? Was this the afterlife?

She lay sprawled atop a very solid body of a very handsome knight on a very small bed. She would have thought it only a pleasant dream except for the fact that they were both wearing soaking wet clothes and lying on an equally sodden bed. The small cabin reeked of brine and seaweed and would only get worse as the sun got hotter. Meryll delicately removed herself from Barristan’s arms, determined not to wake him. She sat up on the edge of the bed and looked down at him, half expecting him to already be awake.

Her eyes widened, realizing he was in a deep sleep, his face slack and relaxed, chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. Never had he slept like this as long as she had known him. He must have been up half the night working in the bilge, she thought, laying a gentle hand on his chest.

Gods, she would have liked to tell her sisters about this. She could just imagine their reactions. Marissa would have no words — she’d just squeal with unrestrained excitement. Walda would turn her nose up and inform Meryll that it was a very improper thing to do, sharing a bed with a man who was not her husband. And Amerei would be in complete disbelief that Meryll hadn’t at least attempted to seduce the knight sometime in the night _. As if such a thing were even possible, storm or no._

Meryll left the cabin as quietly as possible, wanting to stand in the sun on the deck. Perhaps her dress would even be dry by the time they reached Pentos.

 

 

Barristan woke, uncomfortable and hot in the waterlogged bed. Meryll was gone — surely she had wanted to escape the confines of the cabin as soon as possible. The ship’s rocking had subsided to a gentle lilt, and the sun shone high and bright in the sky. He sat up, groaning at the ache in his shoulders. It was a similar feeling to how he had felt after a long battle. He would be able to swing his sword again and again, the battle lust chasing away human concerns such as pain, hunger and exhaustion, but come the next morning, his mortal state would be very apparent.

The night had been long, and the storm had persisted on until nearly dawn. Barristan remembered hearing the slowing of the rain, and standing with Lady Meryll still in his arms, finally asleep. He had tried placing her on the bed, but her arms had been wrapped so tightly around his neck that he could not loosen her grasp. Exhausted and far past the limits of his endurance, he had only the strength left to collapse on the bed, and her with him.

He only hoped she hadn’t been too alarmed by the compromised position she would have found herself in upon waking. He did not wish to bring her shame.

Barristan made his way up to the ship’s deck, expecting to find Lady Meryll at her usual spot at the back of the ship. He emerged from the stairs to see Meryll up at the helm with Captain Groleo. Though her skin was still pale and dark shadows lined her eyes, she seemed more herself— animated and smiling, full of brightness, beauty and youth. She leaned in to say something to Groleo and whatever she said caused the grizzled captain to let out a great whoop of laughter.

“I’ll make a sailor of you yet, m’lady,” Groleo was saying as Barristan approached.

“Ser!” Meryll exclaimed, beaming up at him. He gave her a sharp look but she slammed into him with an enthusiastic hug. Barristan chanced a glance at Groleo but he seemed not to have noticed how Meryll had addressed him as a knight.

She pulled away before Barristan could return her embrace. He was still caught off-guard by how she offered her affection so freely, whether through a kind word, a squeeze of the hand or a warm embrace. Such gestures were foreign to him, but as such, he found they warmed his heart all the more.  

She had taken his hand and was pulling him over to the ship’s rail. _Was this the same woman who had spent the last week hanging over the side of the ship?_

“Captain Groleo says we will reach Pentos later this afternoon. The storm blew us straight toward port,” she said, squinting out at the horizon, as if hoping to be the first to sight land. Giving up, she turned back to Barristan with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Ever since we set sail, I’ve been praying to the Seven that we could reach Pentos sooner. Do you think the storm was an answer to my prayers?”

He shook his head, his lips curving involuntarily. “I could not say, my lady, I could not say.”


	7. Chapter 6

# Chapter Six

They arrived at dusk, the city nearly aglow in the light of setting sun. The many red brick towers and colourful tiled roofs that were the hallmark of Pentoshi architecture decorated the skyline, and it was truly a breathtaking sight. 

“You must be very hungry, m’lady." Meryll tore her eyes away from the beautiful sight to look at the captain. Captain Groleo himself was escorting Meryll and Barristan to the Pentos docks in a sturdy rowboat. He had insisted on taking this task for himself rather than letting one of the sailors handle it.

Meryll’s stomach made a grumbling noise in response. She _was_ hungry, but she was also exhausted and filthy and covered in a thin layer of salt from the sea. “In all honesty, I have been fantasizing about nothing more than a hot bath since I woke this morning,” she said. “That and standing on solid ground,” she added.

Groleo gave Meryll a wounded look. “It breaks my heart, m’lady, that you are so eager to leave my ship,” he said, winking.

“Captain Groleo, do you know that man?” Ser Barristan interrupted. Meryll looked up, and on the docks ahead, a very large man dressed in ornate purple robes waited for them, flanked on either side by two copper-skinned guards wearing spiked caps. 

Groleo squinted into the distance. “I do, my friend, it is Illyrio Mapatis. He is one of the ruling Magisters of Pentos.” 

Barristan’s hands tightened around his walking stick. “And is there a reason why Magister Illyrio is waiting for us on the docks?” 

Groleo said nothing, but it was too late to do anything anyway. The rowboat skimmed up the side of the dock, and Groleo jumped out to tie up. The Magister waited patiently while Groleo helped Meryll out of the boat and Barristan climbed out behind them.

Groleo bowed deeply to Magister Illyrio. “Honourable Magister, I bring to you Ser Barristan Selmy and Lady Meryll.”

Meryll looked up at Barristan in alarm. Had Groleo known who he was the entire time? But Barristan was not paying attention to her. His eyes were on the two men flanking the magister.

Magister Illyrio had a broad smile on his face, as if he was greeting old friends. “Our mutual friend let me know you would be coming, though he was not sure when. I’ve had a man watching the docks for nearly a month now,” he said to Barristan. Magister Illyrio had deeply bronzed skin and long golden locks with a great yellow beard, but his accent was not Westerosi. Meryll thought he must have been a native Pentoshi. 

“Our mutual friend,” Barristan repeated. He was still clutching his walking stick tightly. He did not trust this man, that was plain.

“Lord Varys, of course,” the Magister said.

Barristan shook his head. “The Spider is no friend of mine.” Meryll had never heard of a Lord Varys, nor the Spider.

“On the contrary, ser!” Magister Illyrio said, still smiling. “You both plot to put a Targaryen on the throne, as do I, so that makes us all very good friends indeed. Strange bedfellows, some would say.”

Barristan scowled. He would have taken offense at being accused of plotting, no doubt. An honourable man did not _plot_.

“I had ships waiting for you in Gulltown and White Harbour,” Magister Illyrio continued. “And one at the Saltpans as well, just in case you surprised us.”

Meryll watched as Barristan bristled. He did not like the implication that he was predictable anymore than the implication that he had been plotting.

“But Varys did not mention that you would be accompanied by a lovely lady,” the Magister said, finally acknowledging Meryll. She stood, frozen, as the man lifted her hand and kissed it. And then he turned his attention to Captain Groleo. “My good captain, you will be paid well as promised.”

Groleo bowed deeply again, and upon rising, reached into his pocket. He handed Meryll a small bag of coins and smiled apologetically. “Your fare, m’lady. It would be dishonourable of me to be paid twice for your safe passage.”

“Dishonourable?” Barristan said sharply, turning to the Captain in anger but Groleo had busied himself with untying the ropes. Barristan took a step in his direction and Meryll reached out and grabbed his arm.

“ _Ser_ ,” she said, trying to put as much meaning into that one syllable as possible. They were in a strange land, they knew no one. Starting a fight would not be wise.

 

 

 

Barristan turned and met Meryll’s eyes. _Stay calm_ , she seemed to be saying. He held her gaze for a moment longer, giving her a slight nod in acknowledgement. He forced his fingers to relax around the smooth wood of his walking stick. He looked at Meryll, noting her dirt-streaked face, her ragged dress crusted with salt. She hadn’t consumed anything but broth in nearly a week. It was a miracle she was even still standing. And he was not fairing much better. Exhausted and hungry, he was in no state to be dealing with politics and negotiations. If Magister Illyrio was truly a friend of Lord Varys, then he was no doubt double-faced and silver-tongued. Barristan would need to have his full wits about him when dealing with this man.

Magister Illyrio clapped his hands, causing a flurry of activity behind him as a dozen strong men brought forth an elaborately carved palanquin. It was huge, though it would have to be, to fit a man of Illyrio’s size.

“Are you taking us to King Viserys?” Barristan asked, not ready to just blindly follow the Magister.

The Magister turned back with a look of surprise. “Viserys? Ah, no. You haven’t heard then. Viserys is dead. Queen Daenerys is our last hope. The Mother of Dragons.”

Barristan shook his head, trying to make sense of the news. “Dragons…” he repeated.

“Yes, dragons!” Illyrio said, that broad smile returning to his face. “Perhaps you have seen the red comet? It appeared the night three dragons were born to our Daenerys.”

None of this made any sense. “The dragons have been gone for nearly 150 years,” Barristan said.

The Magister’s eyes twinkled with mischief, which was an odd look for such a large man. “And yet they return.”

Barristan had no patience for fables and children’s stories. “Where is Daenerys? I must go to her immediately.”

“Patience, patience, old knight,” the magister chided. “All will be discussed in good time. But now, you are my guests. Your journey has been long, and you will find rest at my manse. We will all get to know each other a little better, and then we will discuss our plans for the young queen.” Magister Illyrio turned and entered his palanquin with the help of the two spiked-cap men. “Come, come!” he beckoned from within.

Barristan looked back at Meryll, and she shrugged. Feeling he had no other choice, he helped Meryll into the palanquin and followed behind.

It was just the three of them in the palanquin, Meryll and Barristan on one side, and Magister Illyrio filling the entire seat on the other. The guards had stayed outside. Apparently, no one thought the Magister was in any danger from the occupants inside the palanquin. The curtains had all been pulled shut, so they were not able to see the sights of the city. Most of the journey seemed to be uphill, however.

Magister Illyrio tried to make polite conversation, inquiring about their journey so far. Barristan gave succinct one word answers until finally an awkward silence fell over them. Meryll’s elbow dug into his side and then she cleared her throat loudly.

“There was a terrible storm at sea last night,” she started. Magister Illyrio immediately sat up in interest as she recounted her experience of the storm. Barristan thought she might have been embellishing a few details, particularly the part where she thought she was going to drown in the cabin and climbed up to the deck in the middle of the raging storm. _She would not have been so foolish to do such a thing._

“And then the two sailors dragged me back to the blasted cabin and locked me in!” she continued, to the delight of the Magister.

 _She would not have been so foolish to do such a thing_ , Barristan told himself again.

 

 

 

Magister Illyrio’s manse was built within a mountain cliff overlooking the city and the bay. Two handmaidens led Meryll and Barristan through a beautiful courtyard with fountains and topiaries and into the guest quarters. Just before they entered the pillar-framed double doors, Barristan pulled Meryll aside.

“You trust this man?” he asked in a low voice. The two girls waited patiently for them by the doors and did not seem overly concerned by their whispering.

“No, of course not,” Meryll said. “But neither do I believe that he means us harm.” _Not harm, but he definitely wanted something_. Meryll just wasn’t sure what. “Who is Varys?” she asked.

“He is the Master of Whisperers for the Crown,” Ser Barristan said. Meryll did not need to ask him if he trusted Varys. The answer was written clearly on his face.

The girls were starting to fidget uncomfortably at the door. Meryll inclined her head at Barristan and he nodded, leading the way. Through the doorway there was a large, high-ceilinged parlour that was open to an outdoor balcony. Neither of the handmaidens seemed to speak much of the Common Tongue, and used an odd form of Valyrian that Meryll found hard to understand, having been taught a bit of High Valyrian as a child. Ser Barristan spoke fluent High Valyrian and understood the girls only a little better than Meryll. But somehow between the four of them communicating, Meryll learned that one of the doors off the parlour led to her bedchambers, and the other to Barristan’s. The pretty fair-haired, blue-eyed handmaiden led Barristan to his chambers, and the other girl, fine-boned and dark-haired, took Meryll to hers.

The room was beautifully furnished, with luxurious padded couches and chairs and a massive four-poster bed canopied in pale yellow silk. But it was the bath, filled with steaming water and fragrant oils, that made Meryll squeal with delight. She pulled her soiled dress over her head, and the handmaiden helped her into the deep tub. Meryll sighed happily, sinking down until her chin just touched the water’s surface. The girl washed and combed her hair in silence and Meryll did her best not to complain as she worked through the many snags and snarls.

Next, the girl used a brush to scrub Meryll’s back and arms. It was only then that it occurred to Meryll that the other handmaiden, the pretty one, was helping Ser Barristan with _his_ bath. Meryll tried to ignore the little curl of jealousy that bloomed at the thought. The girl had been so fair that if her eyes had been violet instead of blue, she would have looked Valyrian. Meryll had the drab brown hair and drab brown eyes that were so typical of House Frey, and she had always felt very plain indeed when she read about the beautiful women of Valyrian descent in her story books.

She sighed, staring down at herself. It wasn’t a bad body per say, but neither did she have the lush curves of the heroines in her romance stories. Walda and Amerei had both become shapely at a young age but Meryll and Marissa were taller and slower to bloom. Marissa had always been tall and willowy, Meryll, more … tall and _sturdy_. Not the most _desirable_ trait in a woman. 

“M’lady is good?” the handmaiden asked tentatively in the Common Tongue.

Meryll blushed, sinking down into the water again. “Yes,” she said, “everything is good.” 

The girl picked up a folded linen from the floor and shook it out. “Dry?” she asked. 

Meryll nodded, standing, and let the girl wrap the linen cloth around her. The handmaiden was busy braiding Meryll’s hair when the door opened and the other handmaiden, the fair-haired one, entered. The two girls spoke to each other in rapid-fire Valyrian and then burst into giggles. Meryll couldn’t follow the entire conversation, but she got the impression that Ser Barristan had asked the girl to leave. _Stubborn old knight_ , Meryll thought, ducking her head to hide a smile.  

The two handmaidens arranged Meryll’s hair in a braided crown around her head, a style too elaborate for Meryll to ever achieve on her own. She waved them away when they approached her with brushes and coloured powders and creams, but allowed a small amount of fragrant oil to be applied to her neck and wrists. 

The girls then brought over a beautiful swath of sand-coloured silk. Meryll frowned when she realized it was a gown. There didn’t seem to be enough fabric to be a proper gown. But she stood, and the fair-haired handmaiden tugged away the linen Meryll had wrapped around her, and the other girl knelt at her feet, holding the gown. Meryll stepped into the gown, and the girls pulled it up to her waist, the silk as light as a whisper on her skin. The bottom of the gown made sense to Meryll, it was a skirt that fell from her waist to her feet with no slits or ruffles or any other adornment. Above the waist, however, were just a few scant strips of fabric. The handmaidens twisted the two strips of fabric above her waist and then pulled what was left up to cover her breasts and tie behind her neck. There was a second tie behind her back that helped hold it all in place, but still, Meryll felt very exposed. Her sides were bare, as was most of her back. She frowned. 

“I can’t wear this,” she said, shaking her head and reaching to undo the tie behind her neck. 

Both handmaidens swatted her hands away. “M’lady very beautiful,” the dark-haired girl said. 

“Pentoshi style,” the other insisted. Meryll supposed it wasn’t anymore revealing than the near-transparent gossamer silk gowns the two handmaidens were wearing. She slid her feet into matching silk slippers and followed the two handmaidens out into the parlour. There, two of the spike-capped household guards were waiting to escort her to dinner.

“Where is Ser Barristan?” she asked, hoping one of them spoke the Common Tongue.

“Ser Barristan and the honourable Magister wait in the Great Hall,” the one on her left answered in stilted but clear Common Tongue. 

The two guards flanked her like matching bookends, and led her back through the courtyard from which they came, and into another building. The grand entry hall had a high domed ceiling painted in beautiful shades of blues and golds, and the floor was made of glass tiles arranged in an intricate and elaborate design. Through the entry hall lie a long corridor, and then, finally, the great hall.

Meryll was disappointed the great hall wasn’t open to the outdoors like so many other parts of Illyrio’s manse. The room was large and cavernous, and uncomfortably warm and smoky from the dozen or so lit braziers that lined the walls. A long, narrow table filled much of the room, with Magister Illyrio seated at the head, and Ser Barristan to his left. Both men stood as the guards escorted Meryll into the room. She was taken to the Magister’s right, and given the seat directly across from Barristan. It would be difficult for them to communicate without Illyrio noticing, she realized. They would have to resort back to their series of _meaningful looks_ , hoping the other interpreted correctly. Meryll took her seat, tugging at her gown to make sure everything was staying where it was supposed to.

“Never have I seen such beauty at this table,” gushed the Magister, running a hand down Meryll’s bare arm. She very much would have liked to snatch her arm from him, and even move her chair several feet away as well, but she managed a tight smile instead. Ser Barristan’s smile seemed as forced as her own, she thought as she met his eyes across the table. His face had been scrubbed clean, his hair washed and combed back off his face, the ends curling slightly around his ears. Like her, he was dressed in Pentoshi fashion — a fresh, snowy white sandsilk tunic and loose linen breeches. He wore the simple but elegant clothing with grace, and Meryll was please he was wearing white once again.

Magister Illyrio clapped his hands twice and almost immediately a series of servants poured through the doors, each carrying a platter of food. It seemed the courses kept coming. Olives and dates stuffed with a pungent goat cheese; pears poached in port wine; roast capon served with a relish of limes, carrots and raisins; and greens sprinkled with almonds and honeyed ginger; all washed down with a pale amber Pentoshi wine. 

After the meal, delicate and flaky pastries were served along with tiny pewter cups filled with a syrupy sweet liquid that made Meryll’s head spin. _Tyroshi Pear Brandy, the finest vintage,_ Illyrio assured her.

“Thank you for your unparalleled hospitality, Magister,” Ser Barristan said graciously. “Now that we have shared this wonderful meal together, perhaps we can talk of the Princess Daenerys.” Meryll nearly spat her brandy out trying not to laugh at Barristan’s uncharacteristically loquacious manner. She swallowed hard and turned to Magister Illyrio.

“ _Queen_ Daenerys,” Magister Illyrio corrected Barristan. “But tonight is not the time to discuss such things. Tonight, we must enjoy each other’s companionship. There are still so many things I do not know about my guests. For one, why such a lovely noblewoman would be travelling with an accused traitor to the Crown.” He smiled apologetically at Ser Barristan. “I hope you won’t take offense to that, ser, but it is true, is it not? You are wanted for treason?” 

Meryll could see the muscles in Ser Barristan’s jaw working and she rushed to answer before he could say anything. “I am an aspiring singer, honourable Magister. I hope to capture in song the story of Ser Barristan finding his rightful Queen.” 

“A bard!” Magister Illyrio exclaimed. “That is most delightful!”

Meryll ignored the glare she was getting from Barristan, who was not fond of lies.

“You must sing for us,” Magister Illyrio insisted. “My lutist is the very best from Westeros.” He clapped his hands again. “Summon the lutist,” he ordered the servant who came running. The lutist could only have been just outside the Great Hall, because he appeared an instant later, his lute in one hand and a stool in the other.

Meryll made the mistake of looking at Ser Barristan, and the look on his face quite clearly said, _you got yourself into this, and you can get yourself out._ He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. Meryll threw back another cup of the Tyroshi Pear Brandy. She had sang at many a wedding in her days, but she had always been quite drunk.

The lutist invited her to take a seat on the stool. “How about ‘Have you seen but a white lily grow’?” she suggested.

“A fine choice, m’lady,” he said. He strummed the first chord and she began to sing.

 

> _Have you seen but a white lily grow_
> 
> _before rude hands had touched it?_
> 
> _Have you marked but the fall of the snow_
> 
> _before the soil hath smushed it?_
> 
> _Have you felt the wool of the beaver,_
> 
> _Or the swans down ever?_
> 
> _or have smelt of the bud of the brier,_
> 
> _Or the nard in the fire?_
> 
> _Or have tasted the bag of the bee?_
> 
> _O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!_
> 
> _O so white, O so soft, O so sweet is she!_     

 

 

 

It was a simple melody, decorated with delicate little flourishes, and only sparsely accompanied by the lute. Barristan had heard better singers in his time serving the King, but still, her voice was pleasant enough. In fact, there was a raw sincerity to it that he found quite endearing. Magister Illyrio seemed to be enjoying Meryll’s performance, in any case, though Barristan strongly suspected it was not just her voice he was appreciating. 

Barristan had thought the gown scandalous when she arrived in the hall. She clearly had not been comfortable in it, fussing and tugging at it all through dinner. It was quite revealing to Barristan’s eyes, though positively septa-like in comparison to what some of the servant girls were wearing. And now that Meryll was completely immersed in her singing, she seemed less concerned with the gown, and for whatever reason, it seemed to offend Barristan’s tastes a little less. The flowing silk was actually very elegant, he decided. 

Barristan joined the Magister in applause when the song was finished. Meryll took her seat at the table again and Magister Illyrio began filling their cups with more brandy.

“What House do you hail from, my lady? Perhaps it is one I may have heard of?” Magister Illyrio asked.

“She is of House Frey,” Barristan answered, putting his hand over his cup before the Magister could fill it. Meryll kicked him under the table but Barristan saw no reason not to tell the truth — and who knew what she would have come up with had he left her to answer the question herself.

Barristan narrowed his eyes as Meryll sipped from her newly filled pewter cup. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes a little too bright. How many cups had she already drank?

“House Frey,” Magister Illyrio murmured, as if trying to remember something. “I’m sure Varys mentioned something about House Frey in his last correspondence.”

Barristan frowned, hoping it was not bad news. For all Meryll complained of her family, he knew she still cared deeply about many of them.

“Ah yes,” the Magister said after setting down his cup. “Now I remember! The King in the North, the Stark boy, was to marry a daughter of House Frey.”

Meryll nodded, “Yes, those negotiations happened before I left.”

“Well, it seems the boy returned from the battlefield married to a Westerlands girl,” Magister Illyrio added.

Meryll raised an eyebrow. “My Grandfather will not be pleased by that. He will see it as a slight against his house, and will no doubt find some other way to collect what is owed to him,” she said.

 _We take our toll_ , Barristan recalled her saying.

“The plot thickens,” Magister Illyrio said with an intrigued smile. “I suppose we’ll have to wait until Varys’ next letter to find out.”

“How is it that you know Varys, Magister Illyrio?” Meryll asked. Barristan barely contained a frustrated sigh. Here they were, gossiping over Tyroshi Pear Brandy when Daenerys Targaryen was somewhere in Essos, perhaps even within these very walls for all he knew. He tired of these social niceties — he had been trained to settle scores head-on with a sword, not through this intricate little dance of honeyed words and compliments.

Magister Illyrio, however, seemed thrilled to be asked such a question, and launched into a story of when he was a young and handsome bravo, and had formed an unlikely friendship with the eunuch, Varys. Barristan eyed the Magister’s girth and found it hard to imagine him being terribly skilled with a sword. The story went on, Illyrio recounting how the two friends became very rich, _probably swindling the innocent_ , Barristan thought. The Magister’s story meandered off its path as he talked of his two loves, both dead. And then he finally returned to the subject of Varys, saying they still remained close even after Varys had left for Westeros.

When Magister Illyrio started to fill the tiny pewter cups with brandy once again, Barristan decided it was time to put an end to the evening.

“I’d like to hear another song,” the Magister was saying as Barristan pushed his chair back from the table and stood.

“As lovely as this evening has been, Lady Meryll needs her rest. She was very ill on the journey here and I am sure she is exhausted,” Barristan said politely, staring at Meryll. Her brown eyes looked a bit glassy, but she stood and nodded, to his relief. Magister Illyrio conceded gracefully and wished them both a restorative and peaceful sleep. 

As they left the Great Hall, two of the household guards fell into place on either side of them and escorted them back to the guest quarters.

 

 

 

The balcony off the guest quarters faced west, offering a stunning view of Pentos framed by the angry sea behind. A beautifully ornate white marble balustrade surrounded the balcony, and a grand staircase led down to a water garden of fountains and mosaic-tiled swimming pools. The evening sea breeze was cool, a pleasant balm on heated skin. The Tyroshi pear brandy Illyrio had served after dinner seemed to have gone straight to Meryll’s head and left her feeling flushed and slightly euphoric.

She heard the soft footfalls of Barristan joining her on the balcony and for one very indulgent moment, she imagined him coming up and wrapping his arms around her from behind, pressing gentle kisses over her neck and shoulders. Her heart sped up and she shivered a little at the thought, though she knew it was a foolish thing to wish for. Nevertheless, when Ser Barristan joined her at the balustrade, she welcomed his warmth, leaning into his side.

“You did not tell me you were a singer,” Barristan said reproachfully.

She was wondering when this would come up. He had clearly not been pleased by her little white lie at dinner. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I told Illyrio such a thing. But it wasn’t a complete lie. My cousin Alesander is a true bard, and he and I used to sing together at wedding feasts. We even wrote songs together,” she said. “Mostly rude songs about my little brother,” she added as an afterthought.

He snorted softly, staring out at the city below. “Thankfully, you have the skill to back up your claims.”

A hint of a smile on her lips, she bowed her head to acknowledge the praise. She tugged at the skirt of her gown again, not liking how it always felt as if it was about to fall off.

“Don’t fuss, my lady. Those Pentoshi fashions suit you. You were a sight for sore eyes at dinner this evening,” he said, giving her a sidelong glance.

The sparse panels of silk that formed the gown were pretty to be sure, but not ideal for the cool evening air. She shivered in the breeze off the sea and hugged herself, trying to warm her bare arms. Ser Barristan mistook her movement for modesty.

“It was meant to be a compliment, Lady Meryll. You look very beautiful.”

She smiled then, not so much at the compliment, but at how he still insisted on addressing her so formally after all their time together. But then, it was impossible to think of him as anything but a knight, and he would always be “ser” in her mind.

“Perhaps the young wolf king would not have married that Westerling girl had he known such a treasure existed among the Frey girls,” he continued.

She glanced over to catch that twinkle in his eye- the one that meant he was teasing her. Perhaps, she was not the only one who drank a little too much pear brandy. “Lining up with my cousins and aunties to be presented to a potential husband is not something I miss, even _if_ that potential husband was to be a king. I am not upset to have escaped that fate.”

“You are still young. There is plenty of time for a betrothal to be arranged for you,” he said.

She stared at him. Did he really believe such a thing was still possible for her? “And who is going to arrange that?” she asked. “My Grandfather? Even if we do return to Westeros, I am not sure I would be welcomed back into my family home.”

“Perhaps Queen Daenerys will find a suitable husband for you. Possibly even one of your choosing. The Targaryens often married for love, you know,” he said.

Meryll had never imagined Barristan to be a romantic, but here he was, speaking of love. “Yes, I know the stories of Duncan, Jaeherys and Daeron,” she said. “Though I cannot imagine such a thing, marrying for love. You, Ser Barristan, have ruined me for all men anyway,” she said lightly.

“And just how have I done that?” he asked, turning away from the sea and facing her, concern on his face.

She should not have said such a thing. And she should not have said any more. But she did, the words seemingly falling from her lips before she could stop herself. “You are the white knight in shining armor that every girl dreams of,” _that I dreamed of,_ “Unapologetically kind, chivalrous to the point of foolishness-”

“Faint praise, my lady,” he interrupted, chuckling.

“-handsome to a fault,” she added, softer now. The brandy was making her say foolish things, things better kept to herself, truths not meant to be shared.

Ser Barristan flushed then, and Meryll could not tell if he was embarrassed or pleased. Perhaps both. “Sworn to a life of celibacy,” he said pointedly.

She laughed then, waving her hand as if to dismiss such an idea. “What lies just out of reach only becomes more desirable.”

Her words seemed to sober him. “There was a time when many a maiden thought me handsome, but that was a long time ago indeed,” he said solemnly. And then he smiled- “I am just a frail old man now.”

Meryll ignored that last comment, because she knew as well as he did that there was nothing _frail_ about him. “True beauty is not something that goes away with age,” she said, reaching up to push a stray strand of white away from his face. A lean face, with strong lines and angles, softened only by his eyes, ever blue, and ever hinting at some sadness that he did not wish to share. But it was a face that had smiled often if the crow’s feet around his eyes were any indication. She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him there, on that spot beside his eyes that crinkled when he smiled. She liked when he smiled.

Barristan seemed frozen in place, though she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek. He smelled of sandalwood and jasmine which struck her as wrong- the scents of eastern bathwater did not suit her Westerosi knight. She pulled away only far enough to meet his eyes but could not be sure of what she saw there in the blue depths. Confusion? Shock? 

Heart pounding, she dared to place a kiss on his lips, light and delicate, a feathery brushing of her lips against his. It was enough to break his stillness. A sharp inhale through his nose, and then his hands found her and rested lightly on her hips. The skirt of her dress hung so low that his fingers were on her bare skin, the sensation leaving her gasping for breath. She wanted nothing more than to taste him in that moment. A hesitant nibble at one side of his mouth, and then the other. Her fingers curled around his neck, touching the soft hair at the nape, inwardly begging him to kiss her back.

His hands tightened on her hips then, which she took as invitation to press closer, but no, he held her in place. And then he stepped back purposefully, holding her at arms length so she could not follow. It was not lost on her that he chose to remove himself rather than push her away. Ever gallant, no matter the circumstance.

“No, Meryll,” Barristan said quietly. That sadness had returned to his eyes. “I have taken vows.”

She wondered if it was only his vows that stopped him. “You were dismissed from those vows by Queen Cersei.”

He turned away from her, facing the sea, hands clenched tightly around the rail of the balustrade. “I took those vows for life, and I mean to keep them despite of what Joffrey and his mother decreed.” His voice hardened. “And if you have any respect for me and the oaths that I have sworn, you will never do such a thing again.” He looked almost pained, as if she had _wronged_ him somehow.

Meryll swallowed, trying to get rid of the tightness she suddenly felt in her throat as the heat of desire made way to the heat of shame.

“And even if it weren’t for my vows, I am old enough to be your grandfather,” he said, shaking his head at her in disbelief.

Two very practical reasons to refuse her. Or perhaps a very gallant way of letting her down gently. Because it was the words left unsaid that made her heart ache: _I do not desire you._

“My grandfather is 92 years old,” she reminded him, but knew her words would fall upon deaf ears.

He made to leave then, and walked stiffly to the doors leading to his chambers. He paused there, and turned his head to face her. “I will place the blame of this evening on Illyrio’s pear brandy, but my lady, this cannot happen again. It _will not_ happen again.”   

 

 

 

Barristan lay on the very edge of the over-sized bed. It was ridiculous, the size of it, four times the width that would be needed for even two people, he thought. And Barristan had never needed room for even two. Because he had never broken his vows.

The knights of the Kingsguard were forbidden to marry, father children, and to hold land. Some members of the Kingsguard had obeyed the literal meaning of their oaths while conveniently choosing to look past the _spirit_ of the oath. _Celibacy_. It wasn’t spelled out as such, but that was what it meant.

Ser Boros Blount had been no stranger to the brothels, that was certain. And Ser Preston Greenshield used to go calling at the draper’s house when the draper was away. But they were both of Robert’s Kingsguard, and Ser Barristan had always thought the honour of the Kingsguard had been watered down after Robert’s Rebellion. _Perhaps it had something to do with a Kingslayer being part of the brotherhood._  

But even one of Barristan’s most respected brothers, Prince Lewyn of Dorne, had broken his vows. In fact, Prince Lewyn’s paramour was one of the worst kept secrets in the Red Keep. It was also possible that Ser Gerold Hightower had broken his vows early in his time as a Kingsguard, likely well before Ser Barristan was initiated into the ranks. Barristan still remembered Ser Gerold’s warning. “Once you have tasted the love of a woman, it's hard not to go back for more. Better not to know what you’re missing, I say.” Barristan often wondered if Ser Gerold had been speaking from personal experience.

Ser Arthur Dayne, on the other hand, had always been surrounded by beautiful maidens who made it no secret that they would quite happily fall into bed with him, but as far as Ser Barristan knew, Ser Arthur had stayed true to the spirit of his vows. Or if he did bed one of those maidens, he had been very discrete about it.

Certainly, there was no shortage of temptations at court, even for a member of the Kingsguard. _Especially_ for a member of the Kingsguard. _What was it Meryll had said?_   “What lies just out of reach only becomes more desirable.” Queen Rhaella and Princess Elia both kept several ladies-in-waiting at court, and some of those ladies were very beautiful, some more spirited than others. Ser Arthur’s sister, Lady Ashara, had been one such lady. Strikingly beautiful, it was nearly impossible not to look when she passed by. And she had a certain charisma about her. When she turned her attention on someone, she had a way of making that person feel like they were the only other one left in the world. And in all the years since Barristan had been cloaked in white, Ashara Dayne had been the only woman that had ever tempted Barristan to consider coming anywhere near to even skirting the edge of those vows.

Until tonight.

 _Meryll._ He rubbed his hands over his face, trying to make sense out of what had happened.

He had become fond of the girl, there was no doubt. And he knew she was fond of him, had even suspected she harboured a bit of a girlish infatuation for him, thanks to that ridiculous book _._ But Barristan hadn’t thought much of it, because he was no longer the man in that book (if he ever was), and he didn’t think it was any more than a bit of harmless admiration. And he certainly had never considered that she might _act_ upon it. Certainly, others had tried, in his younger days. But the idea that it had happened again, now, at his age — it was almost laughable.

Had he brought this upon himself? Could his teasing have been mistaken for innuendo? Meryll was always so free with her affection. Should he have discouraged it? He had done the opposite, he knew. He had welcomed her gestures of affection, and even returned them. But he was confident his intentions had never been dishonourable. He had even shared a bed with her that last night on the ship, and never once had he thought of kissing her, and certainly not of anything more.

Was he deluding himself?

 _Better not to know what you’re missing._ Better not to have known the joy of such easy companionship, or the contentment of having a woman fall asleep in his arms. Or the simple pleasure of a kiss.

Unbidden, his fingers went to his lips, remembering but not wanting to remember her sweet kisses. One or two cups more of Tyroshi Pear Brandy, and he might have even kissed her back. 

But perhaps he was making too much of all of it. Perhaps, as he had said to Meryll, it could all be blamed on the brandy. She would sleep it off, and everything would be fine. She’d feel a bit foolish in the morning, of course, but he wouldn’t bring it up, and they would just carry on as before. Perhaps he should not have been so harsh with her, he thought, but then dismissed that idea. It was important that she knew it was no trifling matter, offering herself to a man sworn to celibacy.

Barristan sat up. There was no point in even trying to sleep. He had been taking the first watch for so long now that he was used to staying awake well into the night. It was odd, he realized, to have Meryll sleeping with two closed doors between them. He frowned. They were in the home of a strange man, a man who was friends with the Spider of all people, yet it had not occurred to Barristan until now that one of them should have been keeping watch.

He left his bedchamber, entering the parlour between his room and Meryll’s. There were two entrances to watch — the large wooden doors leading out to the courtyard, and also the balcony that was accessible by stairs from the water gardens below. If he faced one, the other would be at his back. He settled on moving one of the chairs to the wall beside Meryll’s door. That way he could keep an eye on both entrances to the parlour. He sat down, his walking stick lying across his lap, and tried very hard not to notice the muffled sobs coming from the other side of the door.  

 


	8. Chapter 7

# Chapter Seven

Meryll woke when her handmaiden entered and pulled the curtains open, letting the morning sun fill the bedchamber. Meryll sat up, and groaned when the events of the evening prior came rushing back to her. She flopped back down onto the bed, pulling the covers up over her face. As if the devastation of being rejected by Ser Barristan weren’t enough, her head was pounding as well, a result of the Tyroshi Pear Brandy, no doubt.

The handmaiden gently tugged the covers out of Meryll’s hand. “You must dress, m’lady.”

When Meryll sat up and caught a glimpse of the gossamer silk confection the handmaiden was holding, she burst into tears. With the help of the brandy, she had actually started to feel beautiful in the revealing gown she had worn the night before, but after Barristan had returned to his bed chambers and she to hers, she had felt like such an idiot. Like a child playing dress-up. What must he have thought of her, so scantily clad and making drunken advances at him? Meryll pulled the blanket around her shoulders. The idea of baring so much skin again brought on a feeling of overwhelming vulnerability that she could not abide. She wanted to armour herself in long sleeves and heavy fabrics.

The poor handmaiden looked completely bewildered.

“Long sleeves,” Meryll said, pointing to her wrists. “Something that covers everything,” she added, gesturing. The girl nodded and left but who knew what she would come back with.

Meryll collapsed onto the couch, her head in her hands. She had spent most of the night awake, agonizing, analyzing every single thing Ser Barristan had said and done and wondering what she might have done differently. The worst part of all was that he had just stood there, frozen. If only he had kissed her back just the tiniest little bit before walking away, she wouldn’t feel quite so stupid. Another part of her wondered about why he waited so long before pulling away. Had he just been too much in shock to react any faster? Or had he been battling some indecision? She had briefly considered going to his room later in the night and climbing into bed with him, but no doubt he would have put her on the next ship back to Westeros.

And yet, had they not shared a bed only one night earlier? But that had been _before_. Before she had kissed him and changed everything. _Ruined_ everything. Would they ever have that same ease with each other again?

But still, he hadn’t outright rejected her. Even now, Meryll couldn’t stop thinking about that one short instant where Barristan seemed to accept her advances, when he seemed to relax and put his hands on her. She shivered at the memory. She could still feel the heat of his hands on her bare skin.

The handmaiden returned, another gown hanging over her arm. It was a heavier fabric, for winter perhaps, and wrapped around the body, tying in the back. The deep-v neckline was not everything Meryll had hoped for, but it was certainly better than the see-through silk of the first gown. The girl tried to help her into the dress, but Meryll couldn’t bear to be fussed over this morning. She waved the girl away as politely as possible, and dressed on her own. She undid the elaborate hairstyle from the night before and arranged her hair in its usual single braid down her back.

Upon leaving her bedchamber, Meryll noted the chair that had been pulled up next to her door. _He had kept watch, despite everything_ , she realized. Ser Barristan’s door was still closed. She stared at it for what seemed like several moments. Was she ready to face him? She knew she wouldn’t be able to avoid him forever. She knocked on his door and nearly jumped out of her skin when one of the household guards appeared behind her. “Ser Barristan is out for a walk. He has been walking the cliffs since dawn. If my lady would like to go somewhere, I would be happy to escort her.”

Meryll thanked the guard but politely declined his offer. She left through the large double doors and walked through the courtyard. She hadn’t noticed how beautiful it was when they arrived the day before, but she saw now how carefully the grounds were maintained. Beautiful flowering trees and shrubs decorated the vast space as well as little intimate sitting areas with stone benches and tables, all crawling with ivy.

She had just sat down on one of the stone benches when she saw Magister Illyrio’s palanquin coming toward her. The man was carted by servants around his own home, she realized. _No wonder he is so fat. Or maybe he needs to be carried because he is too fat to walk?_ The palanquin stopped in front of her and two guards helped the Magister out.

“Lady Meryll,” Magister Illyrio said, smiling pleasantly, and sat down heavily on the bench beside her. “You are looking lovely this morning. Though that is not the gown I chose for you. Was it not to your liking?”

Dear gods, he was choosing her gowns? _That explains a lot_. “Most honourable Magister, I am touched that you have taken such a personal interest in my gowns. I had a bit of a chill when I woke up this morning, however, so I asked for something warmer.”

Illyrio furrowed his brow. “A chill? Are the guest quarters too cold for you, my lady? Perhaps we should move you to the main manse. My own quarters are kept comfortable no matter the weather outside.”

Meryll started to shake her head when the Magister took her hand in his. “You would be most welcome in my chambers, Lady Meryll.” He moved his thumb over the palm of her hand in a way that made her want to wash. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had a Westerosi beauty in my bed,” he continued.

Meryll stood, pulling her hand out of Illyrio’s as delicately as possible. “Apologies, honourable Magister, but I’m afraid I’m feeling ill this morning. I do believe I will have a little rest before I break my fast.”

It took a great amount of self-control to walk back to the guest quarters at a leisurely pace when she wanted more than anything to take off running. Barristan’s door was still closed and none of the servants were present either, so Meryll entered her chambers and crawled back into bed. She cried a little more, wishing Barristan was there but at the same time wanting to never see him again. And then she slept.

 

 

 

Barristan had given up on sleeping sometime around when the sun began to rise and he had left the manse to take a walk along the cliffs. It had long been a ritual of his, passing the sleepless night before a battle by walking. Of course, there would be no battle this morning. Though, facing Lady Meryll seemed an equally challenging task. And there was still Magister Illyrio to deal with. With a heavy sigh, Barristan turned back toward the manse, determined on getting some answers about the Princess, no, _Queen_ Daenerys.

As Barristan neared the manse, he saw a young boy slip down from a tree and go running through the gates, no doubt to inform the Magister of the knight’s impending return. Not as discreet as the Spider’s network, but then, was anything?

“The honourable Magister waits in the courtyard to break his fast with you,” one of the spiked cap guards informed Barristan as he entered through the gates. Magister Illyrio was indeed in the courtyard, though he had not waited to break his fast, and was well into his bowl of oats by the time Barristan joined him.

Illyrio set down his spoon as Barristan took a seat. “Lady Meryll was ill this morning but I have just sent a servant to see if she is feeling well enough to join us now,” the magister informed him. Barristan frowned, wondering if Meryll was truly unwell or if she was just avoiding him as he had been avoiding her. She would know as well as he did that they couldn’t avoid each other for long. “Too much brandy, perhaps,” the magister supplied helpfully.

“Indeed,” was all Barristan said.

Before long, the guard returned with Lady Meryll at his side looking tired and red-eyed. She had somehow found a gown that looked like it was meant for colder climates, a long-sleeved dress in pale blue silk linen. She kept trying to tug the sleeves over her hands as if she was cold, despite the warmth of the morning sun. It was a beautiful day already, and promised to be much warmer by midday. She sat, giving Illyrio a nod in greeting but avoided Barristan’s eyes entirely. Apparently, the oats didn’t thrill her either, and she listlessly moved her spoon around without eating.

Magister Illyrio, on the other hand, ate his oatmeal with gusto. “A bowl of porridge every single morning. It’s kept me regular all these years,” the magister said. Barristan nodded politely and tried to catch Meryll’s eye to exchange an amused look but she stared studiously down at her bowl.

Illyrio inquired about their sleep, their comfort, all the usual questions a host asks in the morning, and Barristan lied and claimed to have slept well. A silence fell over the table and against his better judgment, Barristan reached out to lay a hand on Meryll’s arm. “Are you still unwell, my lady?”

When she finally looked up and met his eyes, he felt a stab of guilt in his gut. She was a shadow of herself, hollow-eyed and drawn, sadness clouding her features. _This is my fault_. She pulled her arm out of his grasp. “I’m feeling better, just tired, but it’s very kind of you to ask,” she said politely.

“I suppose you’ll want to know more about Queen Daenerys,” Magister Illyrio said, seemingly oblivious to the exchange between his two dining companions.

Barristan kept his eyes on Meryll a moment longer but she showed no sign of acknowledging him. He turned his attention to Illyrio. “Last I heard, she had just married a powerful Khal and she and Viserys were travelling with the khalasar to Vaes Dothrak.”

“Yes, well, it takes time for news to cross the Narrow Sea,” the magister said, shrugging.

“Is the Spider’s spy still with Daenerys?” The only reason Robert’s small council even knew about Viserys and Daenerys was because of Lord Varys’ contact in Essos.

“Ser Jorah?” Illyrio confirmed. “He is. But we have not heard from him in quite some time. Let me tell you what I know. Daenerys and her brother had been wandering the Free Cities for years before Varys was able to find them. He asked me to take them in, to keep them safe until we could find more supporters. Lord Varys has a strong network in the west, and I have many powerful contacts on this side of the sea. Khal Drogo was one of them. And so I worked for a long time to negotiate a marriage between the princess and the khal. He brought with him ten thousand Dothraki riders, a veritable army.”

“How did Viserys die?” Barristan asked, caring not of marriage agreements. He found it curious that all of Illyrio’s arrangements seemed to surround Daenerys. The magister had barely mentioned Viserys. Was it always the plan to build Daenerys’ power base and not the older brother’s?

“Perhaps you are aware that carrying a blade is forbidden in Vaes Dothrak,” the magister said, pushing away his empty bowl. “Young Viserys thought himself above such rules and not only did he carry a blade, but he threatened Daenerys and her unborn child. Khal Drogo killed him for that.”

Barristan remembered Viserys being an entitled and hot-tempered child, showing signs of his father’s madness even at a young age.

“There was an assassination attempt on Daenerys in the marketplace in Vaes Dothrak — King Robert’s doing. But Ser Jorah saved her. And we have not heard from him since,” Magister Illyrio finished.

Barristan frowned. “So he is loyal to Daenerys now and not the Baratheons?”

“It would appear so. And since he assumes Varys is loyal to the Usurper, he would have no reason to trust us. Without a dedicated spy, we have had to rely upon other sources, not as reliable of course. But we know that Khal Drogo died, and the child died shortly after birth.”

It was distressing news. “So Daenerys has no one.”

“Daenerys has dragons,” Illyrio corrected him. “Three of them. Ser Jorah is a member of her Queensguard as well as three bloodriders from the khalasar. They were last seen in Qarth.”

“Qarth,” Barristan said, dismayed. The ancient city was clear on the other side of the continent.

“And that was a month ago,” Illyrio said. “Time is of the essence, Ser Barristan. I would like to give you three of my ships to sail to Qarth and find our young Queen.”

Meryll paled visibly. She would not be so eager to set sail again, Barristan suspected.

“Three ships,” Barristan repeated, considering. “And why would you do such a thing? What do you want in return?”

“This is no trick, I don’t wish to deceive you,” Illyrio said. “I only ask that you bring our Queen and her army back to Pentos. From here, we can prepare for her triumphant return to Westeros.”

Barristan could not imagine that Illyrio’s request was quite that simple. If the Spider was involved, there would be many layers of motives upon motives, plots upon plots, deceits upon deceits. “Why do you want Daenerys on the throne? What do you get out of this?” he asked.

Magister Illyrio gave a gallant shrug, an impressive feat considering his massiveness. “I am certain that once Daenerys takes her rightful throne, she will be very grateful. I would be pleased to accept any financial gifts she should offer for my assistance.”

Illyrio must have sensed Barristan’s doubt. “Look around you, ser,” the magister said, gesturing widely. “This life does not come without cost.” He paused as a servant approached and removed the dishes. “I want you to take the ships. Groleo will captain them, and trade goods at the ports along the way. I think you are already fond of him.”

Barristan had no comment on his fondness or lack thereof for Groleo. He had liked Groleo well enough, but that was before he knew that the Captain had been deceiving them since their first meeting. “How long is the journey?” was all he asked.

Magister Illyrio leaned back in his chair, relaxing in his certainty that Barristan would accept his offer. “A month, give or take. All depends on the currents, and the weather.”

“Lady Meryll is not fond of ships,” Barristan said, chancing a glance at his travelling companion.

Magister Illyrio turned to look at Meryll as well. She had been listening carefully to their conversation though had not uttered a single word as of yet. “She would be welcome to stay here with me until you return with our Queen,” Illyrio said graciously.

Before Meryll had a chance to protest, Barristan’s foot found hers under the table. Just the slightest amount of pressure, and her eyes met his and her mouth snapped shut. They would have this argument in private, away from the ears of Magister Illyrio.

“That might be best,” Barristan said, holding her gaze with a warning look.

She stood up and left without a word.

 

 

 

“You are not going without me!” Meryll cried when Ser Barristan entered the guest quarters. He gave her a frosty look before turning to address the two handmaidens, who suddenly appeared to be very busy rearranging pillows on the couches.

“Leave us, please,” he said, the High Valyrian rolling smoothly off his tongue. When the door shut behind the two girls, he turned to Meryll and switched back to the Common Tongue. “You cannot endure another journey at sea.”

Meryll had been afraid he would use that as his reasoning. Her hands went to her hips. “I made it here, did I not?” she asked.

Ser Barristan let out a heavy sigh as if he carried the weight of the entire world upon his shoulders. “I thought you would be happy to stay here,” he said. “Every comfort would be available to you — feasts, handmaidens, baths, pretty gowns-”

“-I don’t give a rat’s arse about pretty gowns,” she interrupted him, nearly shouting. _Gods, does the man not know me at all?_ “Is this because of last night? Is that why you’re abandoning me?” She hadn’t planned on ever mentioning the events of the night prior again, but it was unconscionable that he would leave her behind because of a stupid drunken mistake.

Ser Barristan shook his head vehemently. “ _No_. And I’m _not_ abandoning you. I will be back before you know it.”

She barely heard him. “It _is_ because of last night,” she said, unwanted tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. “Ser. I’m so sorry,” she said, pleading. “I was .. I had far too much to drink. It was very foolish of me. I promise you— it won’t—”

“It is not because of last night!” he cut her off. “I am trying to keep you safe! You had nothing but broth and water on the week-long journey here—”

“I was fine,” she insisted, crossing her arms and blinking away the tears.

Ser Barristan was shaking his head again. “It will take us over a month to reach Qarth. You won’t survive—”

“I was feeling better by the last day, I could—”

“—and we will be passing through Slaver’s Bay,” he said and put his hands on her shoulders. “Do you know what you would be worth to those Slavers?” he asked, his eyes boring into hers. “A beautiful Westerosi maiden?”

“I am not going to be taken by slavers,” she said, waving away his concerns.

“No, you won’t, because you are staying here,” he said flatly, walking away from her.

She was so angry she stomped her foot like a petulant child. “You cannot leave me here!” she shouted. Barristan’s eyes flitted to the doors, where the guards no doubt stood without. Meryll lowered her voice. “You allowed me to come with you, to help you find your rightful liege. Never once did you say we’d cross the narrow sea and then you’d abandon me to go on alone. You are not leaving me with that fat, entitled, pandering … _Grabby Hands_.”

Ser Barristan stopped his pacing, looking confused. “Grabby— _Illyrio_? Has he dishonoured you in some way?” he asked, eyes narrowing.

_Gods, nothing riled the man like a woman dishonoured._ “Not yet,” Meryll said, deciding it best not to elaborate. She thought it was quite obvious that Magister Illyrio was the type of man who if he saw something he liked, he would simply reach out and take it.

“But you think he will?” Barristan probed.

“I do,” she said without a trace of uncertainty. “No one lives in this manse but him and his servants, so who’s to stop him from taking what he wants?”

Ser Barristan actually looked doubtful. _He doesn’t believe me,_ she realized with a twinge of pain. The tears were threatening to spill over from her eyes once again. “Do you really find it so hard to believe that someone might want me in that way?” she asked, blinking hard, trying to keep her anger at the forefront. “Just because y—”

“Enough!” he said in a cutting tone. He glared down at her. “Do not deign to tell me what I do or do not believe.”

“Would you make a liar of me?” she asked, desperate to find a reason for him to take her along.

Her question caught Barristan off guard. “What do you mean?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“I claimed to be a bard,” Meryll reminded him. “It was only a half lie. I won’t be writing any songs, but .. _Ser_. Someone needs to tell your story. Not just that. Live it with you!”

“Lady Meryll,” Barristan said sternly. “This is not a story. It’s real. And it’s dangerous for a—”

“—a woman,” she finished for him.

Barristan shrugged, holding his hands up in a helpless gesture. “Yes.”

Meryll took a step toward him, hating how she had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. “If you do this, if you make me stay here, I may as well have stayed behind at the Twins. Married some Lord and been a broodmare for his little lordlings,” she spat, the tears finally rolling down her cheeks.

A mirthless laugh escaped his lips. “Do not say that. I think you are being overly dramatic.”

But he was considering her words, she could tell. “Please ser,” she pleaded.

He studied her for a long moment, his expression shuttered. “Did you really leave the cabin during the storm to go up to the ship deck?” he finally asked.

_Gods damn it all, is this a trick question?_ Meryll knew how much Ser Barristan despised lies. “Yes?” she tried.

He dragged his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Lady Meryll. If I allow you to sail with me to Qarth, you must do as I tell you. And Captain Groleo and his crew as well. But me most of all.”

She smiled through her tears and rushed forward to fling her arms around him. “Thank you, ser. I will do whatever you ask of me, I promise.” But already she could feel him stiffening in her grasp, his discomfort obvious. She released him and stepped back immediately, wiping away tears. “I’m sorry, ser. I’m just so grateful.”

“It’s fine,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “I- I will go and tell Illyrio of our plans.”

 

 

 

It took a few days to make all the necessary preparations for the journey. Groleo had to find enough sailors to crew the three ships, and the ships still needed to be loaded with goods from Illyrio’s warehouses. Barristan spent his efforts making sure Lady Meryll gained her strength back before they set sail again. The revealing Pentoshi fashions made it obvious that she had lost weight from just the short journey across the Narrow Sea, and he feared she would fare much worse sailing to Qarth. And although Meryll’s mood improved as the days passed, she was still somewhat subdued when she spoke with him. That easy companionship they had once enjoyed seemed elusive.

Barristan was also mindful of the comments Meryll had made concerning Magister Illyrio and tried not to leave them alone for too long, but even with his presence, Illyrio seemed to grow bolder each day. They shared another morning meal with the magister, and Barristan found himself eager to be gone from the manse. He didn’t like the way Illyrio looked at Meryll. His glances lingered a little too long, and held a little too much hunger. And the magister found too many reasons to touch her. It seemed every time Illyrio directed a question her way, he had his hands on her in some way. It was nothing overly inappropriate, but it was clear to Barristan by the way Meryll’s muscles tensed and her voice tightened that it made her exceedingly uncomfortable. And Meryll was not one to shy away from touching, Barristan thought, recalling her warm affection on the journey from Gulltown, how she would lean sweetly into his side as if it were the most natural thing in the world, her head tucking neatly under his arm. Of course, she hadn’t done that for a few days now, not since before that first night in Pentos.

“Ser?” Her voice intruded on his memories.

Barristan focused to see both Meryll and Illyrio looking at him expectantly. He hadn’t heard a word they had said. Barristan cleared his throat. “Apologies, I did not catch that.”

Meryll gave him a strange look. “The most honourable Magister was just saying Captain Groleo will be ready to sail tomorrow, and suggested that you and I visit the marketplace today to outfit ourselves for the journey.”

And so later that morning, they walked through the busy market by the waterfront. It was necessary, considering how inappropriate the fine clothing Magister Illyrio had provided was for travelling. Barristan eyed Meryll’s latest get-up. The sleeveless gown fastened behind her neck, exposing her entire back down to her waist. _It was unseemly_. It was not the sort of thing that should be on display to just anyone. It was something that should be reserved for the privacy of the bedchamber — something a man might see after unlacing the stays of his lady wife’s gown, letting it slip down to reveal the long expanse of her back, _for his eyes and his eyes alone_.

Barristan quickened his pace so he could walk at Lady Meryll’s side rather than behind.

They found a tailor and purchased simple linen clothing using coin provided by Magister Illyrio, and traded in their heavy winter cloaks for lighter cloaks of mottled sandsilk. After leaving the tailor’s tent, Meryll slowed to look over the wares of an apothecary. She took her time examining the many tiny glass vials that were on display and uncorked a few to sniff. “What are they?” Barristan asked her.

“Aromatic oils,” she told him. “Our maester at the twins used them to make healing draughts but my sisters and I used to mix them up into perfumes, much to his dismay.” A softness came over her face, one that he had seen before when she spoke of her sisters. _She must miss them very much_ , he thought. He didn’t know if the oils were very expensive, but it didn’t seem like the sort of thing they should use Illyrio’s coin for. Barristan reached into his pocket, pulling out a small sac of coins, separate from what Illyrio had given him.

“There is still some leftover from what you gave me for our fare from Gulltown,” he said, pressing the coins into her hand.

Meryll stared down at the coins and then looked up at him, shaking her head. “It seems a silly thing to spend our coin on,” she said.

“It is not a bad thing to have something to remind you of home when we are so far away,” he assured her.

She selected three of the vials and handed them to the apothecary. “Lime,” the apothecary said, looking at her selection. “Excellent for mental clarity, m’lady. And fennel? Often used to relieve womanly pains.” He picked up the last vial, smaller than the others. “Patchouli,” he said, giving Meryll a knowing smile. “A common ingredient in love potions.”

Meryll blushed. “I just like how they smell,” she said with a shrug. The apothecary named his sum and she carefully counted out the coins.

Barristan thought she might have waited until they had returned to the manse, but no, once the transaction was completed, she immediately began opening the vials and dabbing the scented oils on her wrists. He waited wordlessly. This was not his first time accompanying a lady to the market, as he had often escorted the Princess Elia to the shops of Kings Landing, and he knew patience was a required virtue for such outings. He couldn’t help smiling when Lady Meryll completed her administrations and sniffed delicately at her wrist, her eyes closing in pleasure at the resulting scent. “You try,” she insisted, holding her wrist up to his face.

Barristan was no stranger to perfume, as it had always been present in abundance among the ladies of the royal court, and he had never been fond of the cloying fragrances. But not wanting to disappoint Meryll, he obediently took her wrist in hand and breathed deeply through his nose. He was pleasantly surprised, as the scent bore no resemblance at all to the heavy florals that had been popular at court. He could smell the sweet and peppery notes of the fennel, the tang of lime, and a heavier earthiness that must have come from the patchouli. He nodded his approval. “It suits you well, my lady.”

No sooner had she secured the vials away in her satchel than was she off on another whim. “Do you think we could find books written in the common tongue?” she asked.

Barristan smiled. _Lady Meryll and her books. Did she know anything at all that she had not learned in a book?_ “Perhaps. But might I suggest you start reading in Valyrian instead? You could use the practice,” he suggested. It did not take them long to find a bookseller with titles available in the Westerosi common tongue, High Valyrian, Low Valyrian and several other languages as well, and Meryll, unsurprisingly, immediately honed in on the romance stories. Finding one that suited her interest, she tucked it under her arm. Barristan had to lean down to make out the title. “The Rogue Sellsword’s Accidental Bride,” he read. “Truly, this is what you want to read? Not only a _sellsword_ , but a _rogue_ sellsword. Seems rather redundant, no?” Meryll just clasped the book tighter.

Barristan looked over the selection, and pulled out a slim leather-bound book. “How about this one?” he asked. “The Knight Who Kept His Promises. You like knights, do you not?”

The corners of her mouth curled prettily. “I do,” she said, “but sometimes I want to read something more…” she paused, and turned an interesting shade of pink. “Never mind,” she said hastily, yanking the book from his hands. “I’ll just get both.”

On their way back to the palanquin, Meryll pointed out a bowyer stall to Barristan. “Can we look?” He nodded his consent and followed her to the stall. The bowyer appeared to be native Pentoshi but greeted them in the Westerosi common tongue. Barristan surveyed the merchant’s offerings with a cursory glance. The majority of his bows were fashioned from either yew or ironwood — simple weapons of acceptable quality. He stood back and let Meryll examine the weapons for herself. She trailed her fingers over the smooth wood of a few before finally picking one up. She tested the draw but couldn’t get her arm back.

“Too heavy,” she said with an embarrassed smile.

“Try this one, m’lady,” the merchant said, handing her a bow meant for a young child. Barristan shook his head, stepping forward.

“Something with a draw weight around four stone,” he suggested. The merchant looked at Meryll doubtfully, but selected another bow and handed it to her. She tested the draw once again and this time pulled her arm back with a graceful strength, her draw hand reaching to just below her chin. The gown he had been so disgruntled by earlier offered him a lovely view of the interplay of muscles in her back, showing that she had excellent technique, using the strength of her back and not her arm to draw back the string. She glanced over her shoulder at him, eyes sparkling. It was good to see the return of the brightness he had become accustomed to seeing in her.  

Meryll handed the bow back to the merchant and he named a price that Barristan thought much too high. “A bow is no good in the tight quarters of a ship, my lady,” he said gently, knowing she would be disappointed. Barristan thanked the merchant and drew Meryll away. “I think we can find a finer bow for you, perhaps in Qarth. Once we arrive in port, we should look for a bowyer from the Summer Islands. They are said to make exquisite bows.”

To his surprise, she nodded and then squinted up at him. “What about you? Do you not want a sword? Something more lethal than your wooden staff?”

Barristan shook his head, looking down at the staff that had become his constant companion these past few months. He continued walking in silence. It wasn’t until they reached the palanquin that he addressed her question. “I threw my sword at Joffrey’s feet and have not touched one since. I will not accept another unless it comes from the hand of my liege.”

Meryll opened her mouth as if to say something but the closed it, a strange look coming over her face. She nodded. “Your utter devotion to your duty is admirable, Ser Barristan,” she said in a dull voice.

He didn’t think she meant any disrespect by her words but neither did they ring true. If anything, he thought they may have been veiled in bitterness. He offered her a hand up into the palanquin. “It is all I have left, my lady.”

 

 

 

They rode back to the manse in silence. Meryll held her hands under her chin, smelling the soothing scents of the oils she had purchased. It had been a wonderful day for the most part. Ser Barristan seemed more at ease in her presence again, which was a relief. She had missed their easy banter over the past few days when all of their words and actions had been stiff and heavily cloaked in decorum.

Ser Barristan had pulled back the curtains and was staring out the window. He had a troubled look on his face, but it was one that Meryll had seen frequently since he had arrived at the Twins after his dismissal. Though he didn’t speak of it, she knew he had not completely come to terms with the way he had been tossed aside by the new king. Meryll could only hope that he was able to find whatever it was he was looking for in Daenerys Stormborn. And that this new queen could heal his brokenness in a way that Meryll could not.

She reached over and took his hand in hers. He looked surprised at first, and then gave her a long, searching look. Apparently satisfied that she wasn’t instigating anything too scandalous, he squeezed her hand gently and offered a half smile before returning his gaze to the window.

When they arrived at the manse, Illyrio was waiting for them along with a huge, brown-skinned man. The man was bald with the smooth cheeks of a eunuch, and was nearly as wide as Illyrio, but where Illyrio’s girth was mainly due to fat, the newcomer appeared to be well-muscled other than his great round belly.

“Strong Belwas, I would like to introduce you to the singer, Lady Meryll, and your new squire, Arstan,” Illyrio said when they emerged from the palanquin. Meryll exchanged a doubtful look with Ser Barristan. They had agreed with Illyrio that Barristan should resume his alternate identity until he could win the trust of Daenerys and her people, but as a squire?

Belwas seemed to be of the same opinion. “Strong Belwas is pleased to meet you both,” the huge brown eunuch said, bowing deeply. “But this whitebeard looks too old to be of any use as a squire.”

Ser Barristan winked at Meryll and returned Strong Belwas’ bow. “Though it is true that I am old and frail, I shall endeavour to serve you to my greatest ability, Strong Belwas.”

Meryll somehow refrained from rolling her eyes. _It was going to be a long journey to Qarth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spend a lot of time on Pinterest looking for images to inspire me to write. Here's one for this chapter:  
> 
> 
> If you ever want to chat about this story or these characters, I can be found on Tumblr at ladygreywrites.tumblr.com.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	9. Chapter 8

# Chapter Eight

Captain Groleo’s three ships, the Saduleon, Summer Sun and Joso’s Prank, lay low in the water, heavy with trade goods. Groleo would be at the helm of the Saduleon, so that was the ship Meryll, Ser Barristan and Belwas boarded. It was much larger than the Moonrunner had been, and required many more crew members to sail. Some of the men were familiar to Meryll, but others she did not recognize. And some, rough-looking and heavily armed, did not appear to be sailors at all.

Once the Saduleon had exited the bay into the open waters, Captain Groleo came down from the helm to greet them. “My friends, welcome aboard the Saduleon,” he said, clasping each of their hands in turn, pausing in front of Ser Barristan. “I hope you can forgive me, Arstan. Please believe me when I say that if I had ever thought Magister Illyrio meant you harm, I would not have delivered you into his hands.”

Meryll watched the indecision play over Ser Barristan’s face. He had no love for deceit, but she knew he had greatly enjoyed Captain Groleo’s company on the Moonrunner. “We will let our bygones be bygones,” he finally said.

“Who are those men?” Meryll asked Groleo, nodding toward some of the armed men she had noticed earlier.

“The Second Sons, my lady. They are a sellsword company and have purchased passage to Yunkai. We will stop there on the way to Qarth,” Groleo said. He waved over one of the men — the largest one. “This is Mero, commander of the Second Sons.”

Mero was taller than Ser Barristan but not quite so wide as Strong Belwas. He had a thick red beard, wind-burnt skin, and pale green eyes that crawled over Meryll in an appraising fashion. “Is this one cargo or passenger?” he asked in a heavy Braavosi accent, stepping closer. “She’ll fetch you a fortune in Lys, even with the dark hair.”

Meryll stepped back and hit the solid wall of Ser Barristan’s chest. His arm immediately came around her waist to steady her.

Groleo laughed as if the sellsword had made a joke. _Was it a joke?_ “Lady Meryll is my honoured guest, as are Strong Belwas and his squire, Arstan.”

Mero’s eyes flitted over Belwas and Barristan dismissively and landed back on Meryll. “A pleasure,” he said before returning to the sellswords. He continued staring at her even as he resumed his conversation with his men. Meryll had an immediate and visceral dislike for the man.

Captain Groleo turned back to Meryll. “My lady, let me show you to your quarters.” To her surprise, he led them to the Captain’s quarters. “I thought you would be most comfortable above deck,” he said by way of explanation.

“That is very kind, Groleo, but I do not wish to oust you from your personal quarters,” Meryll said, frowning at the captain.

“You would not be ousting me, my lady. I may still need use of the rooms during the day, but I can sleep in the hold with my crew. Above deck, below deck, it’s all the same to me in the oblivion of sleep.” Groleo turned to Barristan and Strong Belwas. “You two are free to use the Officer’s quarters in the hold.”

Barristan objected politely. “In light of the sellsword presence on this ship, I would feel more comfortable staying with Lady Meryll.”

Captain Groleo blinked and Meryll could have sworn a slight smile passed his lips, but if it did, he recovered quickly. “Of course,” he said solemnly, “It was remiss of me not to consider Lady Meryll’s safety.”

“Strong Belwas will allow his squire to protect the Lady Meryll,” Belwas said, as if to remind them all of his authority over Ser Barristan. Meryll had no qualms about Belwas whatsoever, and he had been perfectly respectful to her, but the idea of Ser Barristan being in servitude to him was absurd.

It didn’t seem to irk Ser Barristan as much as it did Meryll. “My thanks,” he said graciously to the eunuch. “And of course I will still take care of your washing and meals, Strong Belwas.”

 

 

 

Strong Belwas turned out to be surprisingly intelligent, and Barristan realized it was only his habit of referring to himself in the third person that made him assume otherwise. The eunuch spoke fluent Westerosi common tongue and low Valyrian which would be an asset in addition to his renowned fighting skills. He was not an overly demanding master either, just occasionally bellowing for food or ale. 

Lady Meryll was settling in at sea nicely, Barristan had been pleased to see. The waters down the western coast of Essos were calm and she did not suffer greatly from seasickness. Groleo warned that the sea would be rougher once they turned east along the south coast, but for now, they would enjoy these calm days. It was an odd thing for Barristan, as much of his life had been spent in constant vigilance. Even in times of peace, Barristan had never relaxed his guard, always on the look-out for assassins or other would-be threats to the king. In those months after leaving the Red Keep, he had been lost, having no one but himself to think of for the first time in his life. Now, there was Lady Meryll to watch over, though he knew at times he infringed upon her fiercely independent nature. Other times, he suspected she enjoyed having a protector. 

It was raining, so Meryll was not on the deck in her usual spot. Instead, she was reading in the Captain’s quarters (though the crew members were now referring to them as the Lady’s quarters, much to Groleo’s amusement). He found her stretched out in an armchair, feet propped up on the table and completely absorbed in _The Rogue Sellsword’s Accidental Brid_ e. Thankfully, she had traded in the revealing Pentoshi gowns for loose breeches and flowing tunics, reminding him of the day he found her in the forest clearing when he was running from the crown. 

“I never would have thought the girl who cleaved my training sword in two would turn out to be a romantic,” he said, sitting in the chair across from her. 

Meryll scoffed. “I’m not. I’m just enough of a cynic to know that the reason these books are so good is because they bear no resemblance whatsoever to real life.” She set the book down on the table between them. “My sisters got me started on them. Probably the only girlish thing I ever enjoyed.” 

He begged to differ, thinking of her fondness for perfumes, pear tarts, and white knights, but he said nothing. 

“I wish I would have sent letters to my sisters from Pentos, but it never even occurred to me at the time,” she said wistfully. 

“It never occurred to me either,” Barristan admitted. “I’m sorry, my lady, I suppose we should have sent word to your Grandfather that you were safe and he should stop looking for you.” 

She laughed, but it wasn’t a happy laugh. “Lord Grandfather would not have even noticed my absence.” 

“Of course he would have, you are his flesh and blood,” Barristan said, affronted that she would make such a statement. 

“Me and 110 other descendants,” she retorted. “Grandfather can’t even remember all the names of his sons, never mind the daughters and grand-daughters.” 

“Your father then,” Barristan tried. “He must be worried.” 

“He is likely glad to be rid of me.” 

Barristan frowned. “Why would you say such a thing?” 

She looked him straight in the eye then. “My father is not fond of me, Ser Barristan,” she said matter-of-factly. 

“I’m sure you got yourself in trouble plenty of times, but why would you say the man is not fond of you?” he asked. “You mentioned he took you to Seagard as a girl. He would not have taken you on such an important trip if he did not care for you.” 

A ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “It was different then.” She curled up in the chair, arms wrapped around her knees, and stared at some memory off in the distance. “I was the fourth daughter. Four girls and no sons. My father had been greatly disappointed by another daughter, as you can imagine. I don’t know if someone eventually told me that, or if I just somehow sensed it, but as early as I can remember, I tried to be the son my father wanted. I dressed in boys clothing and followed him everywhere. He taught me how to care for the horses, how to fish, how to ford the river when the waters were high, and yes, even took me along on trips to visit other noble houses.” 

Barristan smiled, not finding it hard at all picturing this rough and tumble little girl that she spoke of, dressed in jerkin and breeches and eager to please. _No, not so hard at all._

“And then my brother was born,” she said shrugging, “and Father had a real son. I was getting to the point then where I couldn’t really pass myself off as a boy anymore anyway.” She stopped talking then, deep in thought. Barristan waited. 

Meryll looked up to meet his eyes, her brow knitted in confusion. “It wasn’t even like he just set me aside and forgot about me. It was as if my very existence offended him somehow. I wasn’t going to be the son he wanted, obviously, but neither had I learned any of the skills that girls were normally taught, and I felt like Father was just … almost, _disgusted_ … by my utter uselessness.”

She blinked and looked down at her hands, shrugged again. “He drank too much, my father. Used to rage something terrible.”

She was making excuses for her father’s abuse and neglect.

“And he had terrible headaches from a head injury he suffered when he was younger. I think he drank to relieve the pain.”

The mention of a head injury caught Barristan’s attention. “Your father,” he said, thinking hard. He recalled a young squire of House Frey who had been hit in the head with a mace. “What was his name?”

“Merrett Frey,” Meryll said, sitting up straight. “Why do you ask? Did you know him?”

“Not personally. But he was a squire for Lord Crakehall, was he not?” Barristan had always had a knack for remembering the squires’ names, despite the large number of them that came and went over the years. Meryll nodded and Barristan continued. “It was on an expedition against the Kingswood Brotherhood that he received that injury. He was dead to the world for nearly a fortnight, no one thought he’d ever wake again.” He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “You know, my lady, I don’t think your father’s supposed dislike for you was personal.”

She scowled. “How could it _not_ be personal?”

“I don’t think it was about you at all. That expedition… it was not a successful one for your father. Even before his head injury, he was captured by one of the outlaws, a veritable woman warrior known as Wenda the White Fawn. She ransomed him and released him once Lord Crakehall paid, but she also branded him—”

“With a fawn!” Meryll finished, wide-eyed. “On his arse! Mother forbade any of us from ever mentioning it.”

“He was very shamed by the experience. The other squires, and some of the knights too, I’m afraid, teased him relentlessly about being bested by a woman.”

“But you didn’t,” Meryll said with quiet confidence.

“No,” Barristan confirmed, “and neither was I able to do much to stop it. But, I just wonder. Wenda the White Fawn, your father must have hated her something fierce. A woman, young and fair, skilled in the arts of men, and known for her prowess with a bow and arrow in particular,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Meryll.

She squinted at him. “You think… you think he hated me because of this Wenda?”

“I do not think he hated you at all. But when you reached womanhood, you were likely a constant reminder of the most terrible, emasculating and humiliating experience of his life,” he said gently.

“I— I’m not sure that’s much better.”

“But it wasn’t because of anything you did, Meryll.”

It gave her something to think about, if nothing else, he thought, watching the mix of emotions pass over her features.

The door swung open then, and Groleo stomped in with a bottle of ale in hand. “Rain’s done!” he announced and then stopped dead in the doorway. “I’m sorry, I can come back if I’m interrupting,” he said, eyes moving from Barristan to Meryll and back again.

Barristan tilted his head, meeting Meryll’s eyes in a silent question. _Did she want Groleo to leave?_ She looked shocked and confused, as if she had just woken up from a long sleep and found herself in a strange place. She stood, retrieving her book from the table.

“No, no. If the rain has stopped, I’ll go read outside,” she said.

Barristan wanted to follow her out, make sure she was well, but he also suspected she needed to time to absorb what he had told her. “Take your time,” he said. “Those two books need to last you at least another month.”

Groleo held the door open for her, and she stopped in the doorway and turned back. “Thank you, Ser Barristan,” she said, eyes a little too shiny, and then left. Groleo closed the door behind her and took a seat on the chair she had vacated.

“I have a trunk full of books in my study she can read but they may not be of any interest to a young woman,” Groleo remarked, pouring the ale into two drinking horns. “Mostly history and astronomy tomes.”

“You might be surprised. Her tastes are quite varied,” Barristan said, thinking of the Maester’s book of battle injuries she had packed in her bag.

Groleo handed Barristan a horn of ale. “She’s a special sort of lady, our Meryll, is she not? Or are many women in Westeros like her?”

“Not many, no,” Barristan said with a small smile, and took a long drink of ale.

 

 

 

Meryll stared at the words on the page, not really reading. For so long, she had thought she had gone from being the apple of her father’s eye to his most hated enemy seemingly overnight. But thinking back, knowing now what she did, it was a more gradual process than that. Little Walder’s birth had changed everything, certainly. And her dressing like a boy had stopped being cute at some point. And father’s headaches were getting worse around that same time, and he had been drinking more. Uncle Danwell had taken pity on Meryll and spent more time with her, taking her hunting and teaching her to shoot a bow. And then Father caught her returning home with bow in hand one evening and nearly beat her senseless.

Meryll remembered crying in her mother’s arms that night, asking what she did to make Father hate her so much. Mother tried to place the blame on his drinking, except that if it was only the drinking, why didn’t Father ever hit any of her sisters? And Little Walder didn’t even get yelled at, and he was the worst one of the lot. Mother hadn’t been able to give her any answers. And yet, Ser Barristan had.

A shadow fell over the pages of her book and Meryll looked up to find Mero grinning down at her. “Nose in a book again, I see,” he said. She barely had a chance to register his words before he snatched the book out of her hands.

She stood up, disliking the way he towered over her, but it wasn’t much better even standing. Mero was reading the page where she had left off, his grin widening. “R’hllor’s balls, woman. Had I known it was sellsword cock you wanted, I would have given it to you the first day at sea.”

“I’m surprised you can even read,” she hissed, trying to grab the book. He held it over his head, neatly out of her reach, and when she attempted to pull his arm down, he tossed the book overboard.

“Why read about it when you can have the real thing?” he asked, and with an ease that should have alarmed her, he grabbed on to her left arm and twisted it behind her back. She pulled back her right arm and swung a fist at his face, catching him by surprise. He merely grunted at the impact while her entire arm seemed to have gone numb. Not that it mattered, because he soon had that arm pinned as well.

It was just starting to occur to Meryll that this was a very bad situation. Of course, she had picked the most secluded part of the deck for her reading nook, out of the sight of any of the sailors. And Mero was huge, and _strong_. He turned and shoved her hard against the rail, knocking the wind from her lungs.

He leered down at her, shoving his hips hard against hers. “Feel that, love? That’s sellsword cock, just for you.” Meryll was dimly aware of a crazed woman screaming and cursing before realizing it was her own voice she was hearing. And she wasn’t the only one who heard it.

Ser Barristan’s wooden staff hit the back of Mero’s head with a sickening crack. Mero’s iron grip on her wrists suddenly loosened and she slipped out from between him and the rail, helped along by Captain Groleo. When she looked back, Ser Barristan was holding his staff under the sellsword’s chin, slowly adding pressure until Mero was bent backwards over the rail.

“You will not lay a hand on her again,” Barristan declared.

Mero was completely at the knight’s mercy and still he didn’t shut up. “Am I supposed to feel threatened by some ancient squire?”

“This ancient squire is about to throw you overboard,” Barristan growled.    

They had drawn a crowd, including many from Mero’s sellsword company, some who had already drawn their blades. This detail had not gone unnoticed by Captain Groleo.

“Arstan, I think you’ve made yourself clear,” Groleo said, placing a hand on Ser Barristan’s shoulder. Ser Barristan didn’t let up right away, but glared down at Mero a moment longer before stepping back and switching his grip on the staff so it once again looked like a harmless old man’s walking stick. Mero straightened up, still grinning like a maniac.

Meryll’s knees gave out beneath her and someone beside her pulled her back up. “Strong Belwas has you, my Lady,” the eunuch said. Ser Barristan appeared at her other side in that same instant. He and Belwas started to lead her away but a large group of Mero’s men stood up ahead, steel drawn, and blocking their path.

The ship seemed to go very quiet for a moment, and Meryll held her breath as Barristan drew to a halt.

“Ease up,” Mero finally said, and his men stepped aside. Barristan pushed ahead once again, pulling Meryll and Belwas with him, and Captain Groleo followed close behind. But Mero wasn’t done.

“You come see me, love, after you realize the old man’s wrinkled sword isn’t satisfying you,” he called. Barristan’s grip tightened painfully around Meryll’s arm and he didn’t let up until they were safely within the Captain’s quarters.

“Are you hurt?” he asked brusquely, eyes glinting with rage.

Meryll shook her head. It was her arm that hurt most of all. “You’re angry with me,” she said.

“Not with you,” Barristan said, and then turned on Groleo. “I would have tossed him overboard! Why did you stop me?” he demanded.

Groleo was angry too. “There are nearly 500 sellswords in the Second Sons and they are all on my ships. Throwing their commander overboard would be very bad indeed.”

“Seven save you, Groleo, I hope the gold was worth it,” Barristan said, seething.

They continued arguing and it did not seem like they would be ending anytime soon so Meryll sat down on the floor. Belwas immediately hauled her up and carried her over to an armchair. “My Lady must rest,” he said, and poured her a cup of wine.

Belwas handed Meryll the cup but it slipped right through her fingers and would have fallen to the floor had Belwas not caught it so nimbly. Surprised, she looked down to see that her hands were shaking. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said.

Strong hands closed around hers. “It’s shock,” Ser Barristan said.

 

 

 

Her eyes were glassy, pupils large and black, and he could feel her rapid pulse under his fingertips.  

“I feel fine,” Meryll insisted. “I just can’t stop shaking for some reason." 

Barristan kept one hand on hers and pulled another chair over. “It’s normal, after trauma,” he said, sitting. It was something he had often seen in his men after a battle— a withdrawing from the experience followed by a delayed realization of what had happened.

Meryll kept shaking her head. “I’m not hurt, I’m fine.”

“You must have been afraid,” he said, still holding her hands.

“I wasn’t scared!” she said irritably. “Not at first, anyway,” she added. Already, the trembling in her hands was starting to subside.

“Tell me what happened,” he urged her.

“He grabbed me so I punched him in the face,” Meryll said.

 _A highly abridged version of the events, surely, but at least she was talking._ “Of course you did,” Barristan murmured.

“But I think I hurt my hand more than I hurt him,” she said, looking down where her hands were clasped in his.

Barristan lifted her hand, examining her knuckles. _Reddened and already swelling_. She winced when he carefully palpated the joints. “Nothing broken but it won’t feel very good tomorrow,” he said. “Where did you hit him?”

Meryll pointed to his cheekbone.

“Next time, aim for the nose, lass. It’s soft and easy to break, plus it bleeds down the back of the throat making it hard to breathe,” Barristan advised. What he really wanted to do was forbid her from ever leaving her quarters again. He wanted lock her in and stand guard at the door and keep her safe until they reached Qarth. But she wasn’t a creature to be caged or tamed, and attempting to impose some sort of control over her would likely cause her to rebel all the more fiercely. And so it seemed prudent to instead prepare her for the worst.

She looked at him with wide eyes. “I wasn’t thinking at all, I just panicked. I’ve never felt so helpless before. Once he had both of my wrists, there was nothing I could do— he was too strong. That’s never happened to me before.” Barristan couldn’t help but be amused by her complete bewilderment over this revelation.

“It’s not like fighting your cousins at home, Lady Meryll. Mero is a man who makes his living killing people. Where was your dagger?”

Meryll stared at him. “In my boot sheath.”

“It’s no good to you there, it should be on your belt where you can reach it.”

“It didn’t even occur to me to reach for my dagger. I’m sorry.”

He chuckled. “You don’t need to apologize. In fact, I should be apologizing to you, my lady. I have been remiss in your training. I gave you that short sword so you could learn to defend yourself.” Of course, at the time, Barristan had not that a year later, he would be with her a to fight her battles. But, Meryll was young and he was not, and he would not always be around to protect her.

“You made me leave my sword behind,” she reminded him.

“A dagger can be just as deadly, my lady,” he said, reaching down to her boot and pulling out the blade. “Do you know how to use it? Do you know how to kill a man?”

Meryll shook her head. “I’ve never had the need.”

“And I pray you never do,” Barristan said, looking into her eyes, so soft and trusting. _Innocent, still_. He had taken her away from a world where she had been safe.

“Strong Belwas will teach the Lady Meryll,” the eunuch declared. Barristan had forgotten Belwas was even in the room, so narrowed was his focus on Meryll. Captain Groleo had left after their argument to try and smooth things over with the Second Sons, but Belwas had remained. Strong Belwas was no knight, but he had his own bastardized code of honour which seemed to include keeping the sole woman on the ship safe. Barristan approved.

“I think that is a fine idea, Belwas,” he said and handed the dagger back to Meryll. “Not now, though. You must rest.” Battle fatigue often set in after the shock had subsided, he knew. And although she had not truly been in a battle, she had found herself in a desperate situation and fought back with everything she had, and it would take its toll.

“I’m not tired,” Meryll immediately insisted. Barristan only had to raise an eyebrow in response. “I am a little bit tired,” she admitted, sheathing the blade. She stood, and to his surprise, climbed into his lap. Groleo’s roomy armchairs easily allowed her to sit sideways on his lap, her head tucked up against his chest. Barristan closed his eyes for a moment, realizing he was in the very position he had been trying to avoid ever since that night in Pentos, and he had not in him the will to stop it. He heard a soft click as Belwas left, closing the door behind him.

 

 

 

Maybe she should not have done it, but at this moment, she didn’t particularly care. Meryll had been very aware of Ser Barristan’s reluctance to touch her ever since she had tried to kiss him, and when he had cradled her hands in his in comfort, all she could think was _more._ She half expected him to protest when she curled up in his lap, or at least utter some excuse before leaving. But no, he remained sitting, and he did not appear to be uncomfortable, but neither did he move to hold her in his arms.

But this was enough. His solid presence was a comfort and his silence was companionable rather than awkward. How easy it was to fall into the role she had actively fought against her entire life— the damsel in distress. Meryll had always hated being coddled. She didn’t need to be protected. She took care of herself, fought her own battles. And she had never trusted anyone to watch her back. Until now.

 _If he hadn’t come when he did_ … no, she didn’t want to think about it. She wanted to think about reading on the ship deck with the sun warming her skin, learning to fight with Belwas, listening to Groleo’s tall tales of mermen and selkies, and pretending to ignore Ser Barristan’s disapproving looks when she said something less than ladylike … she wanted to think about anything but the fact that she was trapped on this ship with that brute, Mero, for at least another few weeks. She did not want to think of his leering looks or his ironclad grip, or how he had so casually and effortlessly immobilized her. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t fight, she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t _think_.

Meryll shuddered, hating that little catch in her throat that wouldn’t go away. Ser Barristan’s arms came around her like a shelter from the storm, quieting the racing thoughts in her head. She rubbed her cheek against the soft, worn linen of his shirt before finally lying still, listening to the slow, steady thump of his heart. Meryll wasn’t tired, but decided she would just close her eyes for a few minutes and rest.

She woke up the next morning in her bed. Belwas sat in one of the armchairs, sharpening the long, curved sword that he favoured. Meryll sat up, groaning a little at the ache in her shoulders and arms. Angry-looking purple bruises had bloomed on her wrists, and her entire hand throbbed from punching Mero.

“Arstan says we should wait until my Lady’s hand has healed before starting our fighting lessons, and Strong Belwas agrees,” Belwas said when she joined him. When Barristan brought food and ale later in the morning, he paused to examine her bruises. He said nothing, but there was a steeliness in his eyes that she had not seen before.

Meryll was not left alone for even a moment after that. Either Belwas, Barristan, or sometimes Groleo, was at her side at all times. Someone even escorted her to the privy closet at the head of the ship, which was somewhat embarrassing. Ser Barristan, of course, was perfectly gallant and never made any mention of the purpose of the trip, treating it like a leisurely stroll on the ship deck. Likely he had provided similar escort to his charges as a Kingsguard, she supposed. Belwas, on the other hand, did not seem to have any concept of discretion and would sometimes offer dietary tips to help with her digestion if she left him waiting outside the door for too long.

She didn’t run into Mero again, and whether that was due to the sheer size of the ship, or Groleo’s doing, she wasn’t certain.

Meryll had discovered a chest full of maps in Groleo’s study, which provided hours of entertainment as she sat hunched over his desk, trying to decipher the small faded text labelling the many inlets and bays along the coast of Essos. It was a bit disheartening to see how far they had yet to sail, but she liked having an idea of where they were at any given time. They had just passed through the Stepstones and were turning east to Lys when Barristan finally declared her healed enough to begin her training with Strong Belwas.

 

 

 

Barristan handed Meryll a wooden spoon, barely suppressing a smile at the look of disbelief on her face. “I have no wooden training daggers, and I’d rather not see you add to Belwas’ impressive collection of scars.” Belwas, on the other hand, probably would have been quite happy to bear a scar from Lady Meryll, judging from the way he paraded around without a shirt, shamelessly displaying his scars for all to see.

Meryll hadn’t wanted to have her lessons on the ship deck where anyone could see, so they had pushed all of the furniture in Groleo’s quarters against the walls, clearing a space in the middle. Barristan took a seat near the wall, not wanting to interfere with Belwas’ instruction. Being a pit fighter, Belwas was experienced with many different weapons, and though the huge eunuch looked slightly ridiculous holding a tiny little dagger, he knew what he was doing. Belwas instructed Meryll on many of the same principles that Barristan would have, though sometimes the terms or method varied slightly.

Meryll knew some of the fundamentals of melee fighting from her sword training, but using a dagger was different. It wasn’t terribly useful for parrying or blocking, and didn’t allow for a lot of distance between opponents, which would make her vulnerable. She would need to fight in a way that would end the encounter as fast as possible, which meant she would need to know how to kill quickly and efficiently. Meryll was not by any means a natural with a blade. Barristan observed how the close quarters made her uncomfortable and panicky, resulting in rushed and clumsy movements. He had trained enough soldiers over his lifetime to know that she would never excel at this hand-to-hand style of fighting. But still, she would improve with diligence and determination. _Which she had in spades._

Watching as Belwas adjusted Meryll’s grip and maneuvered her limbs into the preferred positions, Barristan was suddenly glad that Belwas had taken on this task and not left it to him. Holding Meryll in his arms after her ordeal had been a little too sweet, a little too satisfying watching her fall asleep resting against his chest, despite the confusing feelings of wanting to hold on to her forever while simultaneously wanting to get as far away from her as possible.

Belwas was a surprisingly effective trainer, pointing out Meryll’s errors but doing it in such a way that made her laugh at herself rather than be offended. She was tiring though, as made evident by the way Belwas was able to get past her defenses and smack her bottom with the flat of his blade. She shrieked in outrage and then fell onto the floor, clutching at her backside and dissolving into giggles.

“Perhaps a break,” Barristan suggested dryly. Belwas agreed and sent Barristan to the kitchens to retrieve their midday meal. The kitchens were in the hold of the ship, and Barristan made his way down the ship deck to the ladders that led below.

“Going to fetch the eunuch’s meal, old squire? Perhaps you can bring me mine as well.”

It was Mero, leaning casually against the rail. Groleo had somehow managed to keep Mero and Barristan from crossing paths over the last several days, but Barristan supposed an eventual meeting was unavoidable. He joined Mero at the railing.

“I would have thought a successful commander such as yourself would have young, able men of your own to do your bidding,” Barristan said, making a show of leaning on his staff. He noted the healing bruise under Mero’s eye. “That looks like it’s healing nicely,” Barristan commented idly.

“Our ripe little peach packs quite a punch,” Mero said in a similarly companionable manner. It occurred to Barristan that if anyone were to walk by, they would just look like two friends having a little chat.

“She is not _our_ anything, and you will refer to her respectfully. Her name is Meryll,” Barristan said, a bit of steeliness creeping into his tone.

“ _Respectfully_ ,” Mero scoffed and then laughed. “You want in her skirts as badly as I do, old man. At least I’m up front about it. You think you can just stand by, all respectful and honourable, and she’ll offer you a taste of her sweet peach flesh?”

Barristan’s fingers twitched violently around his wooden staff. He had never held much regard for sellswords, men who fought for gold rather than honour, but Mero was by far the most vile he’d ever met.

Mero rapped his knuckle on the ship rail twice in quick succession, and on cue, four sellswords joined them at the railing. Barristan turned slowly, putting his back to the railing and nodded in greeting to the newcomers. _Five against one. I’ve encountered worse odds and come out on top_ , he thought. He would have liked nothing more than to crack Mero’s skull open with his staff, and the others would fall quick enough once their leader was incapacitated. But Groleo would not be pleased with him.

“As pleasant as this has been,” Barristan said, taking a step forward, “Strong Belwas will be expecting me with a hot meal and ale. I do not wish to keep him waiting.”

All four of the sellswords had their hands resting on the pommels of their swords, but none had yet drawn steel. They all watched Mero for a signal. Barristan waited.

Captain Groleo emerged from the helm, a nervous smile crossing his face as he approached. Mero gave a slight incline of his head to the side and the sellswords stepped aside. Barristan swiftly made his way to the ladder and Groleo followed.

“Looks like I was just in time,” Groleo muttered.

“Yes. I was about to lessen the head count on your ship by five,” Barristan said, climbing down the ladder. “Surely, your crew would have appreciated the extra rations.”

 

 

 

As they finished their midday meal, conversation returned to Meryll’s training. “Do you know the best way to kill a man with a dagger, my lady?” Ser Barristan asked, taking her empty bowl and stacking it with his own.

“A slash to the throat?” she asked. It seemed a fairly vulnerable spot, and easy to reach.

“Yes, that could be effective,” the knight confirmed, “but the veins you want to sever lie deeper than you think. A slash may not reach them. It is actually better to stab your blade right through the neck.”

Meryll nodded, a little disturbed by how her gentle and honourable knight spoke so matter-of-factly about impaling someone’s neck with a blade. Sometimes she forgot that killing was a large part of why he was such a celebrated hero in Westeros.

“What about the heart? Could I stab someone through the heart?” she asked. It seemed an obvious answer.

“Yes, though there is the risk of hitting a rib with the blade,” Barristan said. “You’d want to turn the blade sideways to lessen the chance.”

“Better to aim lower for the liver,” Belwas added. “Bigger target, and they’ll die almost as quick.” He stood up, and handed Meryll her wooden spoon. “Here, Strong Belwas will show you.” He pointed to himself. “Aim between the third and fourth rib.”

Meryll stared at Belwas’ huge round belly, her spoon in hand. “Where are your ribs?” she finally asked.

Belwas gave a great hearty laugh. “Sorry Lady, it’s hard to see on Strong Belwas,” he said, slapping his belly good-naturedly. “Squire!” he bellowed. “Come stand over here.”

Barristan set the dishes down and stood beside Belwas. The big eunuch beckoned Meryll over and took her hand. He placed it on Barristan’s chest. “Easy to find ribs on a skinny old man,” Belwas said.

Meryll met Barristan’s eyes and the corners of his mouth quirked up. _I suppose it would be too much to ask him to remove his tunic_. She moved her hand over his chest, moving downward in search of the bottom of his ribs. And then below, the hard, flat surface of his stomach. His hand closed over hers. “A bit higher, my lady,” he said, pulling her hand up a few inches until she could feel the ridge of bone. Blushing fiercely, she kept her head down as she ran her fingers over his ribs, counting as she went higher. “Three, and four,” she murmured.

Meryll stepped back, holding the ridiculous wooden spoon like a dagger but the height of her target was at an odd place and she wasn’t sure if she should use an overhand or underhand grip. Barristan seemed to understand what her uncertainty was regarding. He arranged her fingers in an overhand grip and pulled her elbow wide.

“You can thrust straight on, between the two ribs,” he explained, pulling her hand forward until the spoon hit him. “Or…” he rearranged her arm into an underhand grip. “You can aim lower and thrust slightly upward, and the blade will slide under the ribs.” Meryll did as he instructed and stabbed at the upper part of his abdomen, just under his ribs. “Good,” he said, “but it takes a lot more force than you think to stab someone. You’ll need to use more than just the strength of your arm. Use the weight of your whole body.”

Meryll sank down into her fighting stance.

“Lower,” Ser Barristan said. “And keep your elbows close. Make yourself a smaller target.”

She adjusted her stance and he nodded and beckoned her forward. She lunged forward, thrusting the spoon forward at his ribs.

“No, you’re just using your arm. It won’t be a fatal wound.” He made a slashing gesture across her throat. “You’re dead. Try again.”

This time Meryll held her makeshift dagger close to her body and slammed herself into him, hoping the dagger hit somewhere lethal. Barristan stumbled back a step and caught her, laughing. “Good,” he said, setting her back on her feet.

Barristan rubbed at a spot on his side, wincing. “I think you may have actually left a bruise,” he said, and glanced back at Belwas. “Beware the spoon, my friend,” he said, clasping Belwas on the shoulder. “I will leave the rest of Meryll’s training in your capable hands while I take the dishes down to the kitchen.”

Meryll was disappointed to see him go, but was also amused at the irony of Ser Barristan Selmy, the greatest living knight, passing on her training to go do the dishes. Belwas continued to spar with her for awhile longer before deciding she had done enough for one day.

They were sitting at the table sharing a bottle of mead when Belwas asked a strange question.

“Does Arstan please my Lady?”

Meryll stared at Belwas, not sure where he was going with his line of questioning. “What do you mean, Belwas? I like Arstan very much.”

Belwas shook his head. “Strong Belwas wonders if Arstan pleases my Lady with his lovemaking.”

Meryll blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Strong Belwas has heard some of the men talking about Arstan not being able to pleasure you properly. And at Arstan’s age, there can be problems with pleasing a lady. It is known,” he said, nodding sagely.

Meryll sputtered a bit but was unable to get any coherent words out.

“Strong Belwas has had many years of experience pleasing ladies without the usual tools,” Belwas said, gesturing to his lap. Meryll cringed. “And if Arstan needed some help, Strong Belwas would be pleased to give advice to his faithful squire.”

Meryll closed her eyes for a moment, trying to make sense of everything she was hearing. “ _Belwas_. Who is saying this? Who is saying that Arstan isn’t able to … pleasure me?” she asked, nearly choking on the words.

“The sellswords,” he said, as if surprised she didn’t know. “And the sailors. The whole crew, really. There’s nothing much else to talk about at sea this long.”

“ _Gods be good_ ,” Meryll started, and then stopped. Was Ser Barristan even aware of any of this? _Probably not_. But the idea of the entire ship talking about Ser Barristan’s inability to please a woman … it was _unacceptable_. She beckoned Belwas closer. “I’ll tell you a secret, Belwas,” she said, leaning in close to whisper.

“Arstan Whitebeard is an absolute _tiger_ in bed.”

Strong Belwas sat back, eyes wide. And then he squinted at Meryll, nodding knowingly. “Yes, yes. Strong Belwas is not surprised to hear this. And don’t worry, Lady, your secret is safe with me.”

Meryll had no doubt the entire ship would have heard about Arstan’s virility by this time the next day. In fact, she was counting on it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muse for this chapter was Ingrid Michaelson's 'Keep Warm'. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H_C59xR8aHc)


	10. Chapter 9

# Chapter Nine

Meryll stood just outside the Captain’s Quarters, staring at the sea. They had passed Volantis overnight, and the water had been rough ever since. She heard the familiar sound of Barristan’s boots thudding on the wooden planks of the deck, and turned to watch his approach. The sailors greeted him cheerily as he passed, a few even offering hearty slaps on the back. He was carrying a steaming hot cup of the tonic for seasickness from the ship’s cook, and somehow managed to navigate the sailors’ effusive greetings without spilling a single drop.

“Why are you out here alone?” he asked, moving to open the door to the Captain’s Quarters. He was holding her cup in one hand and his walking stick in the other, and still he managed to hold the door open with ease.

“Strong Belwas is just inside, I’m not alone,” she said but made no move to go indoors.

“You won’t come in?” Ser Barristan asked, still holding the door open.

Meryll shook her head and turned back to the sea. “I do better when I can see the horizon and breathe the fresh air.”

Ser Barristan handed her the cup. The breeze off the sea was strong and his hair blew across his eyes, but still she could see the grim look on his face. “Is something wrong, ser?”

“You mustn’t call me ‘ser’,” he chastened.

It was a hard habit to break. She didn’t care how much he leaned on that ridiculous walking stick of his, he would always be a knight in her eyes. “I’m sorry, ser,” she said, biting her lip to keep from smiling.

Ser Barristan cleared his throat, seeming not to have noticed her slip. “I’ve just had a very peculiar conversation with Strong Belwas,” he said.

Meryll choked on the tonic. She coughed and sputtered a bit while Barristan patted her back. “And what did Belwas have to say?” she asked once she had recovered.

A pained look crossed Ser Barristan’s face. “He said he was pleased that I…” he trailed off, frowning. “He was pleased that you … he was pleased that you and I …” he stopped and rubbed his hand over his face in frustration. “ _Meryll_. _What have you done?_ ”

Meryll had played this moment over in her head several times over the past few days, and she had always imagined herself laughing when Ser Barristan finally confronted her. But he looked so uncomfortable and miserable that she actually felt bad for a moment. “Are you terribly angry?” she asked tentatively.

He scowled at her for a moment, but then shook his head. “I— I do not know what I am. What would make you do such a thing?”

“I couldn’t stand the absolute rubbish that Mero was spewing, and how the entire ship was talking about your inability to … to—”

“I do not care what others say of me,” Ser Barristan interrupted, saving her from her struggle to find an appropriate turn of phrase.

“Well, I did,” she said forcefully.

“You have your own reputation to think of, my lady,” he said, staring out at the water. The sea was grey from the heavy clouds in the sky, and the waves churned ominously around the boat. It seemed to perfectly reflect Ser Barristan’s stormy mood.

“We’re not in Westeros anymore,” Meryll reminded him.

“No, but we are on our way to find the rightful queen of Westeros, and it would be good if your Westerosi values were still intact when you met her,” he said.

It didn’t happen often, but every once in awhile, Ser Barristan said something that made Meryll realize just how _old_ he was. _And why should he care whether his queen thought her honourable or not?_ Meryll narrowed her eyes at the old knight. “You do not care what your queen thinks of me, you are concerned what she will think of _you_.”

Ser Barristan gave her a reproving look. “I am concerned of what she will think of both of us. The idea of you and I … of …” he trailed off, rubbing his face again. “It is unseemly!” he snapped.

Meryll didn’t find the idea of herself and Ser Barristan quite as revolting as he seemed to, but she chose not to focus on his visceral reaction. “You have not even met this queen yet and already you seek to please her?” Meryll asked. What guarantee did they have that she was any better than Joffrey? Would Barristan serve her simply for her Targaryen name and nothing else?

“I owe my allegiance to her," he said stiffly. "I swore my oaths to her grandfather. I will swear my sword to her and serve her for the rest of my life, should she deem me worthy.”

_He is so eager to bend his knee again, to become a servant once more. And to have someone else give the orders._

“You don’t even have a sword anymore,” she huffed and rolled her eyes when he glared at her. “If it becomes a problem, I will make sure everyone knows the truth of the matter,” she relented. “But for now, I think these rumours are of benefit to us both.”

Meryll continued when he raised an eyebrow at her. “It is better that they think I am yours. No one dares to lay a hand on me.”

Ser Barristan considered that for a moment. “That is good,” he finally admitted.

But his willingness to step right back into a life of servitude was bothering her. “How do you know this Daenerys is not like her father?” Meryll asked.

“I don’t,” Ser Barristan said simply, shrugging his broad shoulders. “But I must hope. I am lost if I do not hope.”

“I imagine she must be very beautiful,” Meryll said, recalling the descriptions of the Targaryens from her books.

Ser Barristan looked at her curiously. “Yes, the Targaryens were always known for their beauty. The men and the women.”

“I find that men often suffer from poor judgment around a beautiful woman,” Meryll said, giving Ser Barristan a sidelong glance.

“I care not about her beauty. I care that she has a just heart.”

But he had misunderstood her — she did not think he cared for a woman’s looks, only that he might not judge Daenerys quite so harshly if she was pretty. Even the septon and the maester at the Twins were kinder to Fair Walda than to Fat Walda, it was just the way things were. But, she considered, it was entirely possible that Ser Barristan held himself above such things.

Barristan suddenly pulled her close to his side, and Meryll wondered why until she glanced over her shoulder to see that Mero and a few of his sellswords were within view. Though she could not hear him, Mero was telling a story in a very animated fashion, complete with grabbing his crotch and making an obscene thrusting motion. From the way his men all turned to look at Meryll when they laughed, she could only imagine that she played some part in the tale he was spinning.

Barristan shook his head in disgust. “I will never understand the way they talk. And how they act as if surviving a month at sea without a woman in their bed is some terrific feat.” He was still staring at the sea so Meryll was able to glance sideways at him without him noticing. _Surviving a month without a woman_. _How long has it been since_ he _has had a woman in his bed_ , she wondered. Had he ever broken his vows?

There was another chorus of raucous laughter from the sellswords.

“Come, my lady,” Ser Barristan said, “we will go inside.” He offered her the customary elbow.

His words were courteous enough but Meryll knew there would be no room for argument. She took his arm and they went into the Captain’s Quarters but Meryll could feel Mero’s gaze on her back long after Ser Barristan closed the door behind them.

The sea did not get any calmer over the days to come. Groleo had to sail far to the south in order to avoid the ruined lands of Valyria. Meryll was disappointed when she realized that she would not be able to glimpse even the faintest bit of its shores, but once she had finally persuaded Groleo to tell her his tales of the Smoking Sea, it wasn’t like when he spoke of being lured astray by mermaids. There was a real fear in his eyes. He told stories of krakens that lived in the waters of the Smoking Sea, great sea creatures that could move through the water with nary a trace, often stalking ships for days without raising an alarm.

The sailors were fearful as well, and the ship seemed eerily quiet without their boisterous shouting and jesting. They never saw anything strange during the day, but at night, Meryll was often jolted awake by strange sounds. It was always too dark to see anything no matter how hard she squinted at the water. One morning, the crew was a man short at head count. He had disappeared the night before and no one knew how or why. And yet none of the crew nor Groleo seemed surprised. 

It was a relief when they finally turned north, sailing through the Gulf of Grief and into Slaver’s Bay. And it was a relief to watch Mero and his Second Sons disembark once the ships docked at Yunkai.

“I am not sorry to see that lot go,” Groleo said to Meryll once the last sellsword had been rowed ashore to the city. Ser Barristan joined them at the rail.

“Will we anchor here for long?” he asked Groleo. “I’d like to go ashore and see if there is any news of Daenerys and her whereabouts.”

“We will resupply and leave in the morning,” Groleo said.

“I’m going with you,” Meryll announced, eager to set foot on land once again.

“No,” Ser Barristan and Groleo said in perfect unison. It would have been funny if she hadn’t been so upset about it.

“It is not a safe place for a woman,” Groleo said. “Or even a man,” he added, giving Ser Barristan a warning look. “Take Strong Belwas with you,” the captain insisted. “Yunkai is crawling with sellswords and slavers, many as bad or worse than Mero and his Second Sons.”

Ser Barristan agreed, and he and Belwas took a rowboat ashore, leaving Meryll in the care of Groleo.

Captain Groleo did his best to distract Meryll by teaching her to play cyvasse, claiming it was a popular game in Lys and Volantis. The rules were confusing and she could barely remember which piece moved which way on the board, but it did well to occupy her mind.

Meryll absently pushed an elephant piece across the board, peering out the window as she did so. There was no sign of the returning rowboat.

“The elephants only move diagonally across the board,” Groleo reminded her for the third time. She pulled the piece back and tried a different move.

“My lady is lost without her white knight,” he commented, and took her elephant with his dragon.

“I’m not lost, I’m just worried,” she insisted, looking out the window again. “Groleo, is that smoke?”

Groleo was up out of his chair in an instant and peering out the door. White plumes of smoke were rising from the deck of Joso’s Prank. They could see the orange flicker of flames as well.

“Stay here, my lady. And do not leave these quarters,” he said, and then he was gone.

Meryll waited in the Captain’s Quarters for a time but when she heard shouting coming from the other ship, she walked out on to the deck to look.

“I left behind something very valuable on this ship.”

Her heart nearly stopped at the sound of that voice. _Fucking Mero_. Where was the crew? Had they all gone with Captain Groleo?

“Will you come quietly, like a lady?” Mero asked, sounding very much like a courteous lord himself.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Meryll said, and it seemed she wasn’t going anywhere at all, for her feet were all but frozen to the ground.

But Mero didn’t seem to have heard her. “Where is your old squire? And the fat eunuch? Who will stop me, love?” With each arrogant question, he sauntered closer until he was looming over her.

Meryll swung a fist at him but he ducked and backhanded her. Her face exploded in pain but if anything, it seemed to wake her up and allow her to remain alert and present. _I can not freeze up again_. He made a grab for her hands and managed to get her left hand, but she decked him in the face with her right, smashing his nose in with a satisfying crack. Mero swore, doubled over in pain, blood pouring through his fingertips as he clutched at his face.

Meryll took off running. She did not want to leave the Saludeon — who knew where the rest of the Second Sons were, and if she was already off the ship, it would just make it easier for them to take her. She ran across the deck, disheartened by the distinct lack of crew members. Many of them had gone ashore in search of a brothel and the others must have gone with Groleo to investigate the fire. Meryll reached the ladder down to the hold, and scrambled down, more falling than climbing. She briefly considered removing the ladder so Mero could not follow, but of course it was bolted down. Everything on the damned ship was bolted down.

Meryll ran into the Officer’s Quarters where Belwas had been staying because she knew the door could be barred shut. She struggled to lift the heavy plank of wood but somehow set it in place, barring the door closed. And just as she stepped away, she could hear the thumping of boots down the corridor. The doorknob turned and she heard Mero swear.

“Let me in, pretty peach.” He was back to being courteous again.

Meryll stood to the side of the door and pulled her dagger from her belt, swearing to herself for just remembering it now.

“Darling, you don’t want to know what I will do to you if I have to break this door down.”

Meryll stayed quiet, waiting with her dagger in hand.

“I had hoped to sell you as a bed slave to one of the Magisters of Lys. Those stories about your old squire didn’t fool me, peach. I don’t believe for a second that old man has been fucking you. You’re still a maiden and you and I both know it. You’d be treated gently by a Magister, live in luxury, receive pretty gifts. You might only have to visit his bed once or twice a month, and that’s if you are one of the favoured girls.”

He was quiet for a moment, waiting for a response from her. Meryll said nothing.

“Open the door, darling, and that’s the life I can give you. But if you don’t … I don’t need the coin that badly,” he said, a snarl creeping into his tone. “I’ll fuck you bloody and let my men have a turn at you as well. And then I’ll sell whatever is left of you to the brothels.” Another pause. “So be a good girl and let me in,” he said, all traces of his threat suddenly gone from his voice.

The handle rattled again.

“ _Open the gods damned door!_ ” he shouted, and slammed against the door. The entire door frame shook from the impact, but remained intact. Meryll backed away to the opposite wall, dagger clasped tightly in her hand, so tightly that her knuckles were white and her arm ached with the effort. Mero continued banging on the door and yelling for a while longer, and then finally fell silent.

Meryll waited a few more minutes. Was he gone? She crept back up to the door, pressing her ear against the wood. The corridor was quiet but she didn’t want to risk opening the door in case he was still waiting. She looked down at the floor and sure enough, she could still see the dark shadow under the door. She backed away.

“You little cunt,” he hissed. He slammed against the door again, and again, and _again_. The plank shook and bounced in its hooks at each blow, but the door remained her stalwart defender.

Meryll retreated to the furthest corner of the room, slid down to the floor, and covered her ears with her hands.

 

 

 

When they returned to the docks, Barristan immediately knew something was amiss. A few empty rowboats were tied to the dock allocated to Groleo, but there were no sailors in sight. Belwas had crouched down and was examining a small pool of blood. They exchanged a look and moved together to untie a rowboat without saying a word. The rowboat moved quickly through the water with both men paddling.

A sailor aboard the ship helped pull the rowboat up. “Where is Groleo?” Barristan demanded, climbing onto the deck of the Saludeon.

“In the hold, Whitebeard,” the sailor answered, worry in his eyes. “He is looking for my lady.”

“Check her quarters,” Barristan barked at Belwas, and then ran down to the ladder into the hold. _Gods damn it all, I never should have left her._

Groleo and two of his crew members were standing outside of Belwas’ cabin door. “Lady Meryll, please open the door!” Groleo called.

“Go away!” Meryll cried from within the cabin.

Groleo turned to Barristan. “She’s barred the door.”

“What happened?” Barristan asked, his old heart racing.

Groleo sighed. "There was a fire on Joso’s Prank. I had to see to it, and she was gone when I returned. We followed the blood trail down here.”

When Barristan noticed the blood he was surprised he hadn’t seen it sooner. It led straight to the cabin, and there were bloody hand prints smeared on the door and handle as well. Barristan pounded on the door. “Lady Meryll. Please open the door.” He waited a moment, heart clenched with worry, but heard nothing. “It’s Ser Barristan,” he said, not caring who heard. “Let us know if you’re well, lass, or we’ll need to break the door down to get to you.” Beside him, Groleo gave orders to a sailor to run and fetch an axe.

“Ser?” Her voice was small and scared like a child’s.

“Yes, my lady, it’s me. You’re safe now. Go on and open the door.”

He heard her fumbling with the plank of wood and finally the door opened and in a flash of linens, Meryll was in his arms. For once, he did not hesitate to hold her tightly.

“He was here, ser,” she gasped, voice muffled against his shirt. “Mero. He came after Groleo left. I punched him in the nose like you taught me, ser,” she said in breathless jumble of words.

“Good lass,” Barristan murmured into the hair on the crown of her head. He turned to Groleo. “Search the ship. Make sure he isn’t still hiding somewhere.”

“I ran in here and locked myself in,” Meryll continued. “He was banging on the door and yelling and I thought he would never leave. And even after it went quiet, I was sure he was still there waiting for me. I was too scared to leave.”

“You did well. Are you hurt?” Her face was pressed against his chest and he had to tip her chin up to get a good look at her. Her eyes were bright, too bright, and one side of her face was red and sore-looking. “Seven hells, lass,” he swore, grazing a finger lightly over the inflamed skin.

Meryll pushed his hand away. “I’m fine, ser, truly.” But she seemed restless, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“What is wrong?” he asked, backing up a step to take a good look at her.

She was shaking her head. “I’m fine! It’s just that you were gone so long, and I couldn’t leave.” Her cheeks were pink. “I need to use the privy!” she all but shouted.

Barristan blinked. _Good gods, was that all that was wrong?_ He glanced over her shoulder into Belwas’ cabin, and yes, there was a chamber pot in the corner, as there was in every single cabin in case the occupant did not want to make the long trek to the privy in the middle of the night.

She saw where he was looking and glared in disbelief. “I wasn’t going to use Strong Belwas’ chamber pot!”

His lady had no problem making her water in the woods on the journey from the Twins to Gulltown, Barristan recalled. He shook his head and offered her an elbow. “Come along, Princess Meryll, I will escort you to your royal privy.”

Meryll ignored his arm and pushed past him, all but running to the ladder. He followed behind and only stopped her when her hand closed on the door handle to the privy closet. “Just wait,” he said, holding her back to make sure no one was hiding inside. It was empty, and she shoved past him and slammed the door behind her.

Barristan chuckled to himself as the tension ebbed from his body, knowing that she was not hurt. She emerged a short time later and she had such a look of pure relief on her face that he burst out laughing.

“It is not funny, Ser Barristan,” she huffed, hitting his chest with the palms of her hands, only making him laugh harder. He took her hands and removed them, and then turned her around toward the Captain’s Quarters, pushing her ahead.

“It is a little bit funny, my lady,” he said, managing to sound somewhat remorseful.

She stomped back to the Captain’s Quarters and refused to even look at him, but it gladdened his heart to see such spirit in the girl.

The sight of Groleo and Belwas waiting in the Captain’s Quarters was a sobering one, and a reminder of the events that had just occurred. “Any sign of Mero?” Barristan asked, all humour gone.

“He is gone, two of the crew saw him rowing back to shore,” Groleo said, looking weary.

“And how did he get on the damn ship in the first place?” Barristan asked, the tension in his body suddenly back.

“We found the body of one of my sailors thrown overboard. It was not one of my usual crew, but one of the new recruits. And I suspect he killed the man back at the docks as well,” Groleo said, and turned to address Meryll. “I’m sorry, my lady. This is my fault.”

“No,” Barristan said, shaking his head. “It is no one’s fault." It was his own fault, if the blame could be placed on anyone. "What was the cause of the fire?”

Groleo shrugged. “Vandals, apparently. Started the fire and left.”

 _A vandal from the Second Sons, no doubt_. Barristan had been keeping people safe his entire life. He could put plans in place, and prepare for contingency after contingency, but still there was no way to anticipate every possible scenario. At some point, he just had to hope that his men were prepared and well-trained enough to act in the moment and stop a tragedy from occurring. He glanced at Lady Meryll. She was pale, her face starting to swell up, and she cradled the hand that she probably injured by punching Mero again, but she was standing tall. She would be fine. He had trained her well, and she had done all the right things to keep herself safe.

“Have we finished resupplying?” Barristan asked the Captain.

“Nearly. The barrels are being loaded as we speak,” Groleo said.

“Good. Let us be gone from this place.”

Groleo nodded and returned to the deck, shouting orders at his crew to get ready to sail.

“Did you find what you were looking for in Yunkai?” Meryll asked, apparently having forgiven him for his earlier actions.

Barristan nodded, though his time in Yunkai already seemed like a lifetime ago. “I did. Daenerys is still in Qarth, and with any luck she will still be there when we arrive. It is said that she is being courted by one of the merchant princes of the city.” He thought it would be very bad indeed if Daenerys were to marry while still in Essos. When she returned to Westeros, marriage would be a useful tool in order to secure an alliance with one of the greater houses.

“What took you so long?” Meryll asked.

Barristan felt guilty for a moment before remembering what it was that had delayed his return to the Saludeon. He nodded to Belwas and the eunuch slipped a leather sack off his arm and handed it to Meryll.

 

 

 

Curious, Meryll took the bag from Strong Belwas and sat down at the table. Reaching into the bag, her hands closed on something square and solid. _Books!_ She pulled out the neatly tied bundle of books, and removed the twine.

Three of the titles involved knights, no surprise there. The fourth looked to be about a family shipwrecked on a deserted island, and the fifth concerned a young maiden, a stowaway on a pirate ship, of all things.

“No sellswords, I’m afraid,” Ser Barristan said with a twinkle in his eye.

Meryll laughed, clutching the pile of books to her chest. “That’s fine. I’ve had enough sellswords for a lifetime.”

Strong Belwas pushed the leather bag toward her. “There is more, my Lady,” he said, his chest puffed up with pride. Meryll reached in the bag again to find a small velvet pouch containing a single vial of oil. She pulled out the cork and sniffed at it. “Chamomile, lavender, and peppermint,” she said, “and something else I do not recognize. What is it for?” she asked, looking curiously at Barristan. She hoped this wasn’t his idea of a perfume, because it wasn’t all that pleasant smelling.

“It is supposed to help with nausea, my lady,” Ser Barristan said with a smile. “It was Strong Belwas’ idea.” 

The following days of their journey were challenging, the sea rough through the Ghiscari strait and down past the Red Wastes. But the combination of the scented oils and the cook’s tonic was effective in combating Meryll’s seasickness. By the time they reached the Straits of Qarth, Meryll was halfway through the pile of books Barristan had purchased. She usually read inside, avoiding the hot sun, but Ser Barristan and Belwas didn’t seem to mind the heat. Every morning, Meryll could hear the thud of their boots on the deck as they sparred with wooden sticks. They would come into the Captain’s Quarters for a drink afterward, spent and sweaty and breathing hard with exertion. It should have been unappealing, Meryll thought, but somehow it was strangely attractive.

Meryll watched as Ser Barristan wiped the sweat from his brow with a clean linen cloth. There had been a passage in the book she was reading, a tale of a knight and his lady, where the knight returned from battle full of lust, claiming that the only thing better than a cold ale after a fight was a warm and willing woman. And the love scene that followed -- it was all very primal and terribly exciting. Especially how the knight simply bent his lady over a chair and yanked up her skirts and _took_ her.

Ser Barristan took a great gulp of ale and made a satisfied noise as he set his mug down. Meryll stared, wondering if he’d make a different sort of noise if it was a woman that was satisfying him. And then she wondered if he had ever even _had_ a woman. Seeming to just notice her, Barristan reached over and tugged the book out of her hands. “Still not finished that one?” he asked and flipped through a few pages.

Reddening, Meryll yanked the book back and pulled a different one from her pile. It was the one he had chosen for her at the market in Pentos: _The Knight Who Kept His Promises_. “This one might be better suited to you,” she suggested, handing it to him. It had an exciting storyline with lots of political intrigue and fight scenes. There were still love scenes, of course, but they were not nearly so scandalous as in the book she was currently reading.

Ser Barristan looked curiously at the book she had so frantically ripped away from him and then turned back to the one in his hands. “Perhaps,” he allowed, sounding doubtful, but he tucked it into his pocket nonetheless.

Reading such salacious material trapped on a ship with the object of her affection was not without its consequences. Although her sleep had often been plagued with nightmares since leaving Yunkai, Meryll also experienced dreams of a different sort.

During one of their last nights at sea before reaching Qarth, Meryll awoke achy and wanting from a dream filled with wandering hands and slow kisses. Like most dreams, the details were fuzzy when she woke, but that did nothing to take away from the feelings it evoked. If she had been in her bed back home, she would have slipped her hands beneath the covers for some sweet relief before falling asleep again but somehow she couldn’t bring herself to do such a thing when the hands she would be imagining belonged to the man across the room from her. She sighed, rolling onto her side and pressing her thighs together, trying to ignore the needs of her body.

The bed dipped slightly and she knew she was not alone. “Another bad dream?” Ser Barristan asked.

 

 

 

Barristan set the lantern down on the small table beside the bed and peered down at Meryll’s face when she rolled over. No tears, at least, he noted as she blinked up at him with wide eyes, but her skin looked flushed and damp. Her sleep had been troubled ever since Mero trapped her beneath the hold, Barristan knew, and night terrors often woke her in the middle of the night.

“D-did I wake you?” she asked in a shaky voice.

Seemingly of its own volition, his hand moved to smooth back the hair from her face. Her eyes closed at his touch and she let out a long shuddering breath. “No, my lady, I was still reading,” Barristan said in a soothing voice. He hadn’t been able to put the blasted book down, surprised to learn it was heavier on the adventure and battle scenes and lighter on the love scenes. “You were moaning in your sleep,” he added, still stroking the fine hair at her temples. It was so silky, so soft under his fingers.

Her eyes fluttered open then, and her irises looked almost amber in the flickering light of the lantern. “I’m sorry I disturbed you, ser,” Meryll said, looking away. Barristan frowned. Was she embarrassed? She seemed restless, her legs moving underneath the sheets. “It’s so hot in here,” she complained, pushing at the blankets.

His eyes had followed her hands downward as she shoved away the offending covers. She still wore her soft linen tunic but had removed the leather vest she normally wore over top. The thin tunic clung to her breasts, hiding nothing of the rounded curves nor the way the dark nipples stood erect as if threatening to poke through the soft fabric.

Barristan hastily slid his gaze back to her face, feeling suddenly as if his heart was in his throat and beating much too rapidly. He swallowed hard, taking in her flushed cheeks, her slightly parted lips, the way her eyes had gone soft and liquidy. _Gods be good_. He had thought the soft moans she had been making in her sleep had been from fear, but he was starting to think otherwise. He drew his hand back, and she protested almost immediately.

“Don’t stop, ser, it feels so nice.” Her voice suddenly seemed seductive to him, sweet and husky and soft with sleep. He stood even as she reached for him, taking a step back from the bed.

“Go back to sleep, my lady,” he said, gruffer than he would have liked. He put out the light and returned to his own sleeping mat, clear on the other side of the room. And yet it felt much, much too close. He lay on his back, staring up at the dark, shamefully aware of every toss and turn Lady Meryll made in her bed across the room.


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry this update took so long. i had a bit of a challenge figuring out how to fit Dany's story in here but still having it be Meryll and Ser B's story.

# Chapter Ten

 _Better not to know what you were missing, indeed._ But it was impossible to erase the past, to forget, to unsee things already seen. He couldn’t even be angry with Meryll. She had kept her promise and hadn’t done anything inappropriate since she had tried to kiss him back in Pentos. And if that attempt had awoken his awareness of her as a woman, then the blame did not lie with her, but within himself.

Barristan was not unaware of the admiring glances Lady Meryll gave him when she thought he wasn’t looking, and neither was he unaccustomed to such looks. He had joined the Kingsguard at the age of 23, an age when most young men think of little else but the love of a woman. His father had tried to discourage him from taking the white. “You know not what you are giving up,” father had said. But the age of 23 was also an age when a young man thought he knew more than his elders.

When Barristan had arrived at court, he had been young and handsome, and a war hero, no less. And though he excelled at all of his duties as a Kingsguard, he had not been prepared for the attentions of the ladies at court. Rhaella’s ladies in waiting were all beautiful and graceful noblewomen, draped in silk and damask, their gowns perfectly fitted, adorned in heady perfumes and jewels. And they were women who were very secure in their station in life, for they came from the most powerful houses in Westeros, and thought they could do as they liked without consequence. Barristan had expressed his outrage to Ser Gerold Hightower that ladies of such high standing would dare to seek the romantic attention of a man sworn to celibacy, and Ser Gerold had only laughed. But then he provided counsel. _Always be courteous, but nothing more, and never let yourself be distracted from your duty._ And so Barristan would ride into battle with his white scaled armour, but against the ladies of the court, he armoured himself in cool courtesy and an impenetrable wall of duty. For the most part, it was effective.

But now, perhaps it was that he no longer had his duties as Lord Commander to focus him or perhaps it was that Lady Meryll was just especially skilled at scaling walls and finding the weak spots in armour, but Barristan had definitely let himself become distracted.

“Keep up, Whitebeard!” Meryll called over her shoulder, eyes bright with humour. She had been so happy to leave the ship that he had half-expected her to kneel down and kiss the ground when they left the docks. They walked through the massive indoor bazaar of Qarth, so large that there were actually trees growing within the walls, and what seemed like thousands of gaily coloured birds had made their homes in the rafters above. Barristan picked up his pace and fell in beside Meryll, smiling as she linked her arm with his. It was always his off-hand that she took, and never his sword hand. Not once had he uttered such a request out loud to Lady Meryll, but she was a sensible woman when it came to such matters. “You promised me a bow,” she reminded him.

“I suppose I did,” Barristan said. He was pleased to see she had regained her vigour since departing the Saludeon. She was a lovely woman. A lovely young woman. He had always thought so. She had not the austere beauty of the ladies at court with their unquestionably noble bloodlines, nor the other-worldly beauty of the Targaryens, but something about her tugged at him nonetheless. It was his arm that Lady Meryll was currently tugging on, as she had spotted a bowyer from the Summer Islands.

 

 

 

“You pick,” Meryll said, pulling Ser Barristan over to one of the many display cases. He took his time, walking by each display case and studying its contents, asking the merchant questions about some of them. Finally he selected a bow made of goldenheart. The wood was exquisite, a soft muted gold with very little grain. The merchant removed the bow from the glass case and handed it to Meryll.

“If my lady would like to try?” the merchant asked, handing her an arrow and gesturing to a roped off shooting range.

The wood of the bow was silky smooth under her fingers, and the grip was wrapped in a buttery soft strip of leather. Meryll notched the arrow and pulled her arm back - the draw weight, _perfection_ \- and aimed and loosed. The arrow hit the round target with a satisfying _thwack_. A sound she had missed dearly. It was a few inches short of the bullseye, but not bad considering how long it had been. She turned to ask Ser Barristan what he thought, but he was gone.

“There, my lady,” the merchant said, pointing over Meryll’s shoulder. Ser Barristan was walking back into the crowd, his attention on something she could not see.

Meryll handed the bow back to the merchant. “Thank you. Please excuse me for a moment.” She rushed to catch up with Ser Barristan. He kept walking forward, seemingly having forgotten about her, but when she reached his side, he immediately took her hand.

“Look there, my lady,” Ser Barristan said, pointing. Up ahead, she could see a young woman, diminutive and delicately boned with long silvery strands of hair falling down her back. And at her side, a large dark-haired Westerosi man dressed in wool and chainmail. Meryll could just make out the bear-shaped sigil on his chest.

“She is wearing trousers!” Meryll marvelled. The Targaryen queen wore no royal vestments, instead she was clad in loose sandsilk trousers not unlike Meryll’s own, and a painted leather vest that fastened with laces up the front.

“She has won your approval already then,” Ser Barristan mused, a faint smile touching his lips.

Meryll shrugged. “It is a good start.” They moved a bit closer. Daenerys Stormborn and her Westerosi guard were also accompanied by two copper-skinned men with long black braids hanging down their backs. Dothraki horsemen, Meryll surmised.

“The knight is Ser Jorah Mormont,” Barristan said.

“He is a knight?” Meryll asked. But yes, she supposed he was armoured like a knight, despite the heat. Ser Barristan only nodded. Daenerys and Ser Jorah were currently admiring a large brass platter. Ser Jorah held it high above their heads as they both inspected it. Meryll couldn’t imagine why they would want to purchase such an item.

“I believe we have been spotted,” Ser Barristan said quietly. And yes, Ser Jorah had handed the platter back to the merchant, and turned around to stare at them, flinty-eyed and suspicious. The knight might have approached them then, but was intercepted by a young Qartheen, who handed Daenerys a beautifully jewelled box.

“A gift for the Mother of Dragons,” the man said. Daenerys beamed and as she opened the box, the young man said, “I am so sorry,” and disappeared into the crowd.

In an instant, Ser Barristan was running at the Targaryen queen, staff lifted, and knocked the box out of her hand. Daenerys cried out in protest and her two Dothraki horseriders closed in on Ser Barristan but not before he slammed the end of his staff onto the ground. One of the Dothraki held a curved blade at Ser Barristan’s throat, and the old knight immediately dropped his staff, spreading his arms wide in surrender. The second Dothraki horserider came up from behind and kicked Barristan’s legs out from under him, forcing him to his knees.

“No!” Meryll cried and lunged at the Dothraki but she was quickly caught from behind and she felt the cold steel of a blade at her throat. Ser Jorah’s grasp was tight and unforgiving. “Don’t move,” he growled.

One of the Dothraki picked up Ser Barristan’s staff and examined the end. Making a sound of disgust, he scraped off the squished remains of a large insect. “A manticore, Khaleesi, with deadly venom in its sting,” he said. “Who was that man?”

“A Sorrowful Man,” Ser Jorah said from behind Meryll. “They always apologize before killing their targets.”

Daenerys clutched at her hand, peering down at her fingers.

Ser Barristan tried to stand but the two Dothraki pushed him back down. “My apologies if I have hurt you, Your Grace. I only meant to get the box away from you,” he said, gallant as ever despite the blade at his throat.

Daenerys shook her head. “That man saved my life. Release him, Aggo,” she commanded her Dothraki horseman. And then she turned to Ser Jorah. “Her, as well.”

“Khaleesi, I must advise against this. For all we know, these two were involved in the assassination attempt,” Ser Jorah warned, his grip tightening on Meryll rather than loosening.

“If that is the case, then they are very poor assassins indeed,” Daenerys said with a finely arched eyebrow. “Release them.”

“As my Queen wishes,” Ser Jorah said, though there was great reluctance in his tone, and he released Meryll abruptly, causing her to stumble to the ground.

It was Daenerys herself who offered Meryll a hand to her feet, and Meryll thanked her in the common tongue. Then the Targaryen queen turned to offer the same to Barristan, but he shook his head and remained kneeling.

“Who is it that I owe my thanks to,” Daenerys prompted him.

“I am Arstan, called Whitebeard by many, and I have travelled here with the great pit fighter, Strong Belwas, and Meryll the bard. We were sent by Magister Illyrio to find you,” Ser Barristan said in flawless High Valyrian. For someone who hated lies and deception so much, it seemed to come easily to him.

Daenerys offered her hand again and this time Ser Barristan took it. “Illyrio. Truly?” she asked, helping Barristan to his feet. She was a beautiful woman, with pale skin despite the hot Qartheen sun, and eyes that sparkled violet.

“Aye, Your Grace. He sent us with three ships to bring you back to Pentos.”

Daenerys looked at Ser Jorah in wonder. “Three ships… And where is this pit fighter you speak of?” she asked, turning back to Ser Barristan.

“Strong Belwas went in search of a bath house. We were at sea for many weeks, Your Grace. He will meet us back at the docks, if you would come with us.”

Daenerys introduced her knight, Ser Jorah, and Aggo and Jhogo, who she named her Bloodriders.

Ser Jorah looked at Meryll. “You speak the common tongue. You are Westerosi and of noble blood. What house do you hail from, my lady?” His words were courteous enough but his tone was hard and unyielding.

Meryll glanced at Ser Barristan in time to see him give her a slight nod. _So we are going with the truth,_ she thought. “I am of House Frey.”

Ser Jorah’s eyes narrowed at the mention of her house and then he turned to Ser Barristan. “And you, Arstan, you are from Westeros as well?”

 

 

 

Barristan disliked the look on Ser Jorah’s face at the mention of House Frey and almost hoped Ser Jorah would make some disparaging comment so he could correct him. Many of great houses looked down on House Frey as being upstarts and nothing but toll collectors, but Barristan thought Lady Meryll had more heart and courage than many knights of nobler bloodlines.

Barristan answered Ser Jorah in the common tongue. “I am, Ser. I grew up in the Dornish Marches and squired for a knight from House Swann. Now, I squire for Strong Belwas.”

Jorah looked doubtful. “A bit old to be squiring, are you not?”

“Not too old to serve, Ser Mormont.”

The knight peered at Barristan’s face, as if trying to decide if he recognized him. “You know me, then.”

Barristan knew him. He knew he was an exiled knight who fled Westeros to escape a sentence of execution for selling poachers to slavers. “I saw you fight in a tourney or two. You do not recall? I suppose not,” Barristan answered his own question. “Knights take little notice of squires that aren’t their own, I suppose.”

“I would see these ships,” Daenerys said, uninterested in the talk of knights and squires. “What does Magister Illyrio want of me that he has sent you all the way from Pentos with such generous gifts?”

Barristan turned back to his queen. She had the look of her brother, Rhaegar, especially in the shade of her hair. “The realm bleeds, Your Grace,” Barristan answered. “Robert the Usurper is dead, and when we left the west, there were already four claimants to his crown. We have need of you and your dragons in Westeros.”

The expression on Daenerys’ face did not change at the news of the Usurper’s death, so either she already knew, or she was very good at hiding her feelings. “I have three dragons,” she said. “And more than a hundred riders in my Khalasar, as well as their horses.”

“There will be room for them all, Your Grace. Please follow me,” Barristan said, and bowed before turning away to lead them back through the bazaar. He could hear Ser Jorah whispering to Daenerys but could not make out the words. Barristan hoped they would follow. _I must have hope_ , he reminded himself. _Without hope, I am lost_.

Barristan took them through the busy bazaar. The Summer Islander bowyer waved them over before they could pass. “I still have the goldenheart bow for the lady archer,” the merchant called. Meryll looked at Barristan with hopeful eyes.

Barristan apologized to Daenerys. “If you would allow a brief stop, Your Grace.”

She nodded, looking curious. Barristan handed his bag of coins to Meryll.

Ser Jorah was dismissive. “A goldenheart bow? Those do not come cheap. Does she even know how to shoot?”

Meryll had just finished paying the merchant and her posture changed immediately at Ser Jorah’s words. When she turned around, Barristan immediately recognized the angry gleam in her eye directed at Ser Jorah. Barristan had to put his hand on her arm to get her attention. _Do not say anything foolish_ , he begged her with his eyes. Meryll’s chest rose and fell as she took a deep breath and slowly let it out.

Then she smiled sweetly at Ser Jorah. “I have a little bit of skill with a bow, but I am just a foolish girl, Ser Jorah. Perhaps you can teach me on the journey back to Pentos.”

Barristan shook his head. Ser Jorah had no choice but to respond courteously. “I would be pleased to, my lady,” he said, though his smile did not reach his eyes. Barristan almost would have rather see her tell him off than treat him so gently, but another time, perhaps.

Meryll’s purchase completed, they continued back to the docks. Barristan found himself at Daenerys’ side, watching for any attempts on her person. _Old habits die hard_.

“Were you at many tourneys, Arstan?” Daenerys asked.

“Quite a few, Your Grace.”

“Did you know my brother, Rhaegar?”

“I am not sure that anyone truly knew your brother, but I did have the honour of seeing him compete in the tourneys, and I also heard him sing and play his harp,” Barristan answered truthfully. He risked revealing too much, but he could see how Daenerys longed to hear of her brother. She likely did not remember him at all.

Ser Jorah snorted. “I suppose you claim to have squired for him as well.”

“I make no such claims, ser. But Prince Rhaegar had two squires in his lifetime, and they remained his close companions even after they were knighted. He was also very close with Ser Arthur Dayne.”

“The Sword in the Morning!” Daenerys exclaimed. “Viserys said Ser Arthur was the only knight in the realm who was our brother’s equal.”

Barristan had to look down to hide his face, for it was he himself who bested Prince Rhaegar at the Tourney at Storm’s End, not Arthur Dayne. “I would not dare to question the words of Prince Viserys,” Barristan murmured.

“King,” Daenerys said imperiously. “He was a king, though he never received his crown. But what do you mean, was Rhaegar not a peerless warrior?”

“He was skilled with a sword, Your Grace. He was skilled at nearly everything he set his mind to. But a warrior without peer? I don’t know if I could say that of any man. A man may fight well one day, and not so well the next. Perhaps he did not sleep well the night before, or he stepped on a slick spot in the grass. A change in the wind could bring victory,” Barristan said and looked round to Daenerys’ other side, where Ser Jorah walked. “Or a lady’s favour knotted round an arm.”

Ser Jorah’s reaction was swift. His face darkened and he scowled at Barristan. “Watch your words, old man,” he growled. Daenerys patted Ser Jorah’s arm. “It is nothing, my knight. Arstan meant no insult, I am certain.”

Barristan had not meant any insult, it had merely been an attempt to find out just how much Daenerys knew of her exiled knight. Had Ser Jorah told her of the tourney that started his downward spiral to ruin? Barristan was at that tourney in Lannisport, where Ser Jorah won with Lady Lynesse of Hightower’s favour, and won the Lady as well. Word was, she ruined him, unhappy with her new life on Bear Island, so different than the life she had enjoyed in Oldtown, and Ser Jorah spent everything he had trying to keep her satisfied.

“As you say, Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said in a grudging voice.

 

 

 

At Daenerys’ orders, Ser Barristan was painting new names on the hulls of Groleo’s three ships. Strong Belwas supervised, pointing out the slightest imperfection in the large gold letters. The three ships were renamed the Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes — the names of the dragons the Targaryens had used to conquer Westeros. It irked Meryll to see Ser Barristan labouring at such menial tasks, but he seemed to find enjoyment in it.

Meryll and Groleo stood on the docks, watching as Daenerys’ Khalasar loaded their goods and horses onto the ships. The horses were terrified, and their riders only a little bit less so. But when the dragons came, it was Groleo who became nervous. Meryll marvelled at the creatures, just a little larger than dogs — Viserion was the smallest and scaled with white and gold, Rhaegal was a brilliant shade of green with bronze eyes, and Drogon, the biggest of the three, had scales of jet black and breathed flames of black shot with red.

“We cannot have such creatures on a ship,” Groleo insisted, white with fear. “You must cage them, Your Grace.”

“My dragons will not be caged,” Daenerys said in a tone that did not allow dispute.

“Water!” Groleo ordered his crew. “Starting filling buckets!”

By the end of the day, the ships had been loaded with Daenerys’ people and goods, and the gunwales were decorated with hundreds of buckets of water.

Daenerys and her handmaidens, Irri and Jhiqui, had taken over the Captain’s quarters, though the Targaryen queen had graciously invited Meryll to join them. Belwas, Barristan, Jorah and Groleo shared the Officer’s quarters, while the rest of the Khalasar preferred to stay below deck with the horses.

They set sail at dusk, having spent less than a day in the port city of Qarth, but both knights had been eager to leave after the foiled assassination attempt. Meryll stood with Ser Barristan at the rail, watching as Qarth disappeared in the distance. He looked weary, the lines in his face deeper than usual and his brow was furrowed.

“Are you troubled, ser? I thought you would be relieved that we found Daenerys Stormborn,” Meryll said.

“I am relieved. But I dislike the lies I had to tell her,” Ser Barristan said, rubbing his beard. “And you must not call me ser, especially now.”

 _It would be a hard habit to break_. “We can tell her the truth of it once we reach Pentos. You will have earned her trust by then, I’m certain.”

Ser Barristan nodded and turned away from the rail. “Groleo thinks we may hit a small storm this evening. I’ll have the cook to prepare a tonic for you.”

After he left for the kitchens, Meryll went back to the Captain’s quarters. She was about to open the door when she heard Daenerys and Ser Jorah arguing from within. Meryll pressed her ear to the door.

“Arstan Whitebeard is not what he says he is, Khaleesi. He speaks much too eloquently for a squire.”

“He saved my life,” Daenerys said.

“You cannot trust him, or the eunuch.”

“Strong Belwas could not scheme his way to breakfast.”

“And Illyrio Mopatis?” Ser Jorah swiftly retorted. “He is clever, and devious.”

“Magister Illyrio protected my brother and I. He has done much to support us. Why would he give me three ships if he was scheming against me?”

“He wants you in Pentos so he can control you, Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said. Meryll had to agree with the knight. She didn’t trust Illyrio anymore than Jorah did.

“I have you and my Bloodriders to protect me.”

“You do, yet you insist on surrounding yourself with men you cannot trust, like this fat eunuch and ancient squire. And the bard. Really, a _bard_? We are supposed to believe that? How many have you been betrayed by already?”

“You are speaking to your Queen, Ser Jorah. Every man I take into my service is a risk, I know that. But you and I alone cannot conquer the Seven Kingdoms.”

“If I may suggest a plan, my Queen.”

“You may speak freely.”

“Tell the captain to change course. Let us go to Slaver’s Bay. And we’ll see who your new friends are loyal to — you or Illyrio.”

Meryll jumped back from the door when she heard footsteps coming up from behind her. Irri and Jhiqui came around the corner and the best plan Meryll could come up with on the spot was to act as if she had just arrived. She waved at the two handmaidens, opened the door, and entered the Captain’s Quarters.

She walked in on Ser Jorah kissing Daenerys. The three dragons hissed in protest and Ser Jorah took a step back. Daenerys hastily pulled a fallen blanket over her shoulders.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” Meryll said, looking at the floor. Gods, she had been expecting to interrupt a private conversation, not _this_. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.” 

Daenerys gathered her wits quickly. “It is fine, Lady Meryll, Ser Jorah was just leaving.”

Jorah stormed out of the room, nearly knocking Meryll over as his shoulder hit hers on his way out. As she straightened, she met Daenerys’ violet gaze, but Meryll wasn’t sure what she saw there. She couldn’t tell if Daenerys was angry or grateful for Meryll’s interruption. Jhiqui and Irri entered the room behind Meryll and Daenerys quickly dressed in a sandsilk tunic, dropping the blanket, and busied herself feeding her dragons thick pieces of raw meat. Jhiqui and Irri were soon sprawled in the armchairs, chatting in what must have been the Dothraki language.

“What is a bard doing travelling with a sellsword and his squire, Lady Meryll?” Daenerys asked, her back still to Meryll.

Meryll and Ser Barristan had agreed to stick to the truth as much as possible. The more lies they told, the easier it would be to slip up. “I met Arstan on his way to Pentos. I had left my family home looking for inspiration for my art. When Arstan told me he sought the last living Targaryens to pledge his support, it sounded like a story I needed to write.” She hoped Daenerys wouldn’t ask for too many details on how Ser Barristan became a squire for Belwas, because she and Barristan had not discussed that much.

“Will you sing something for us?” Daenerys asked, finally joining Meryll and her handmaidens. “Something from Westeros?”

Meryll bowed deeply. “Of course, Your Grace.” She knew many songs of Westeros, though she wasn’t sure what type of song Daenerys might like to hear.

Just then there was a knock at the door. Irri opened the door and Ser Barristan came in with the hot mug of tonic for seasickness. He greeted his Queen first and then turned to Meryll. “Lady Meryll,” he said, bowing his head and presenting her with the mug. Meryll had to bite back a smile as she took the mug from his outstretched hands. In all his time on the ship as Arstan, he had still treated Meryll courteously, but always as an equal. She supposed he was taking his role as a commoner squire more seriously now that there was more at stake.

“Thank you, Arstan,” she said, looking up in time to see him wink.

Next he knelt before his queen. “I hope you are finding everything to your liking in your quarters, Your Grace.”

“It is more than I could have asked for, Arstan,” Daenerys said, and motioned for him to rise. “Why don’t you join us. Lady Meryll was about to grace us with a song.”

“I would be pleased to,” Arstan said, raising an eyebrow and smiling at Meryll like a boy.

Gods damn it, she had been completely drunk the last time she had to do this. “Any requests?” Meryll asked hopefully, looking at Ser Barristan.

A solemn look came over his face. “There was a song my mother used to sing, Lady Meryll,” he said. “Perhaps you know of it. I believe it started with _In midst of woods or pleasant grove_.”

Meryll knew it, had sung it with cousin Alesander, but it had been many years ago. “I do not know all the verses, Arstan, but I think I could manage a few.” She wished Alesander was here with his lute for support. She started out with a bit of a quavery voice, feeling suddenly shy. _Seven hells, who would’ve ever thought I’d sing for a Queen._ But she grew in confidence after the first few lines, and Ser Barristan nodded at her in an encouraging way.

_In midst of woods or pleasant grove,_

_Where all sweet birds do sing,_

_Methought I heard so rare a sound_

_Which made the heavens to ring._

Meryll felt a catch in her throat after the first verse when she saw the wistful look in Ser Barristan’s eyes.

_The charm was good, the noise full sweet,_

_Each bird did play his part;_

_And I admired to hear the same,_

_Joy sprang into my heart._

She stopped after the second verse. “I’m sorry, I cannot recall the rest.” Irri and Jhiqui burst into applause, and Daenerys joined in. But Meryll only had eyes for Ser Barristan. She could remember at least two more verses, but she thought maybe he had heard enough. 

Ser Barristan stood, seemingly unaffected, sadness nowhere to be seen now that she was done. “Thank you, Lady Meryll,” he said quietly, and clasped her shoulder for a moment. Meryll stared up into his blue eyes, wondering what memory she had resurrected from the depths. He had spoken little to her of his family, only saying that he had disappointed his father when he left to join the Kingsguard.

Ser Barristan turned. “Your Grace,” he said, bowing deep to Daenerys.

Daenerys stood. “Arstan, before you go. Please tell Captain Groleo to set course for Astapor.”

“Astapor, Your Grace,” Barristan repeated with a furrowed brow.

“It is my wish.”

Barristan hesitated for only a second before replying. “Of course. As you wish, Your Grace.”

After he left, Meryll joined Irri and Jhiqui in the armchairs to find them whispering and giggling. She had finally figured out which was which — Irri was slimmer and wore her hair in a single braid, and Jhiqui was round and plump and wore her hair in two braids.

“Are squires paid very well, Lady Meryll?” Irri asked in Valyrian.

“No,” Meryll said, confused at the question. “I’m not sure if they are paid at all, actually.” Daenerys looked perplexed by her handmaiden’s question as well.

“So Arstan is not rich?” Irri pressed.

“No,” Meryll answered, and it was certainly not a lie. Any coin that they had came from Magister Illyrio.

The girls whispered some more. “Why do you ask?” Meryll asked.

“Usually when a young woman is with an old man, it is because he is very rich,” Irri said matter-of-factly.

“It is known,” Jhiqui chimed in.

“What?” Meryll exclaimed, alarmed. “Oh, no. Arstan and I are just travelling companions.” The girls burst into giggles again.

“Valyrian is not your first language, Lady Meryll,” Daenerys said, eyes dancing with laughter.

“Did I make an error?”

“The word you chose for companion, it means more like ‘lover’.”

Meryll groaned. She still had much room for improvement on her High Valyrian, it seemed. Daenerys said a few sharp words in Dothraki to her handmaidens, and the girls immediately sobered. “I apologize for their manners, Lady Meryll,” Daenerys said, but gave Meryll a shrewd look. “I’m sorry if they made you uncomfortable. I certainly would not want someone thinking, for example, Ser Jorah and I were lovers, based on something they saw.”

There was more to Daenerys Stormborn than first appeared, Meryll realized. She was no girl playing at queen, in any case.

“I understand completely, Your Grace,” Meryll said, giving the Queen a small smile.


	12. Chapter 11

# Chapter Eleven

“If I may ask, Your Grace, what is it that you hope to find in Astapor?” Ser Barristan asked. Daenerys’ most trusted people - Ser Jorah, her Bloodriders, and her two handmaidens - had joined Barristan, Belwas, Groleo and Meryll to break their fast that morning. Ser Barristan’s question was framed as politely as possible but Meryll knew he had no desire to return to Slaver’s Bay.

“An army,” Daenerys said simply, setting down her empty bowl. Ser Jorah moved to fill it with more oat porridge, but she waved him away.

“We can hire sellswords in Pentos, Your Grace,” Ser Barristan said. “Magister Illyrio would be pleased to offer more warriors of Strong Belwas’ renown.” Strong Belwas made a grunt of protest and Ser Barristan hastily corrected himself. “Not quite as formidable, of course, but skilled, surely.”

“She means to buy an army of Unsullied,” Ser Jorah said.

Ser Barristan frowned. “Unsullied?”

“An army of gelded slaves who obey without question and feel no pain,” Aggo explained. He said it in a matter-of-fact sort of tone, reflecting none of the outrage Meryll felt at hearing such an explanation.

“And how do you intend to find the funds to purchase this army of slaves?” Ser Barristan asked. It was a practical question, and one that needed to be asked, yet Meryll could not imagine that Ser Barristan would be in favour of buying slaves, no matter how badly Daenerys needed fighting men.

“These ships are full of riches. An army will be of much greater use to me than spices, jewels or silks,” Daenerys said.

“Illyrio’s riches,” Ser Barristan reminded her gently.

“Magister Illyrio claims to support House Targaryen, and so he should be happy to put his wealth at our disposal,” Ser Jorah said. The knight of House Mormont was frowning at Ser Barristan with narrowed eyes. This line of conversation would not end well should Ser Barristan choose to pursue it. Meryll could almost see the internal battle play across his face.

“I am sure Illyrio would be pleased to be of assistance,” Ser Barristan allowed.

The subject was not broached again after that first day at sea, and so the ships carried on to Slaver’s Bay. For Meryll, the time passed quickly, especially with the company of other women on the ship. In some ways, it was like having sisters again, but in other ways, it made Meryll miss her actual sisters all the more dearly. Irri and Jhiqui were easy to be around, and loved hearing stories of Westeros and its strange men that wore metal over their clothing. While Daenerys did smile and add to the girlish conversations, she never giggled or made bawdy comments like her handmaidens were prone to. Meryll disliked but also respected the way Daenerys held herself slightly apart from her companions. She was a queen, after all.

While Meryll enjoyed her new roommates, she found it disconcerting being apart from Ser Barristan. The reality of her situation — being far from home in a strange place with strange people — seemed magnified without the steadfast presence of her Westerosi knight.

It was several days into their journey when Meryll woke in the middle of the night, as she often did. She lay on her back, staring into the dark and listening to the quiet breathing of her companions. Before they had met up with Daenerys in Qarth, Meryll had become accustomed to having company when she woke in the night. Ser Barristan was as restless a sleeper as she was and it never bothered him if she lit a candle to read for a bit. But Meryll did not want to risk waking Daenerys. She closed her eyes for a few moments but when Irri rolled over beside her and started snoring, Meryll knew there was no point in trying to get back to sleep. She stood up from the sleeping mat and pulled her cloak over her shift.

She walked the ship deck, the night breeze cool on her skin, and somehow she was not surprised to find Ser Barristan standing by the railing, staring out at the sea.

“You cannot sleep either?” he asked, turning at her approach.

 

 

 

Her skin looked faintly blue in the dim light of the stars, her eyes a shining black. As she came closer he could see the freckles scattered across her nose, a result of too many days spent under the hot sun. She shook her head at his question. “No, and I am unused to waking in the middle of the night without finding you reading in the dim light of a candle. Do you still do that? You’re going to go blind.”

Barristan ignored her playful chastising and chose to focus on what she had left unsaid. _She missed him_. They had been near constant companions since leaving the Twins, but his role as squire and servant had left little time for them to talk away from Daenerys and her people. He could admit he preferred Lady Meryll’s company to the men he now shared quarters with, though he was very much accustomed to the company of men. How many years had he bunked with his fellow Kingsguard, listening to their grunts and snores and farts? _But if you didn’t know any different, it wasn’t so bad_.

“You are not enjoying your new companions?” Barristan asked, though he knew she was. He had seen more of her smiles and heard more of her laughs now that she had Irri and Jhiqui to jest with.

“I enjoy them very much. But it is difficult to let my guard down when I have to mind every word I say,” Meryll said.

He sighed. “I understand.” The lying ate away at him. He wanted to tell Daenerys stories of her brother, Rhaegar, and though he told her the stories of Rhaegar that any child in the realm could - tales of his deeds on the tourney grounds, of his discipline in studying, and of his skill as a musician — he could not speak of his personal interactions with the man without raising the suspicions of Ser Jorah Mormont.

“Would it be easier to just make our confessions?” Meryll asked.

How he wished it were so easy. “Lady Meryll, while I served the Targaryen family faithfully for much of my life, I spent my most recent years protecting the man who obliterated House Targaryen. I do not think Daenerys will be so quick to forgive such actions. But I remain hopeful that there will be time when she is open to hearing such things.”

Meryll nodded, but looked troubled. “Do you still plan to tell her once we reach Pentos? Will we return to Pentos at all?” Her brown eyes blinked up at him and he was struck with the knowledge that he not only had his own safety to think of, but hers as well. She had placed her trust in him, and he could not fail her.

“I do not know. For now, it is good that you are winning her confidence. Daenerys seems fond of you,” Barristan said.

“She is fond of you also, ser. She likes to hear your stories of Rhaegar. There is only so much I can tell her, but I find other stories to share. The girls like to hear tales of knights.”

 

 

Barristan frowned. “And which tales are you telling?” He knew that Meryll could probably recite stories of his own deeds from sunrise to sundown, but if Mormont were to even hear the name _Ser Barristan Selmy_ , it might be enough for him to put together where he knew Arstan from.

“Do not fear, ser, I only tell tales of my _third_ favourite knight, Duncan the Tall,” she said, lips curling into a pretty smile.

Barristan already knew who her favourite knight was, but he had been unaware that there was a ranked list. “And who is second?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“Ser Gerold Hightower.”

He smiled. “I am honoured to be listed alongside men such as Ser Gerold and Ser Duncan,” he said truthfully. They were men he had looked up to for much of his life.

“You’ve unhorsed both of them,” she reminded him with an elbow to his rib.

Barristan stepped away slightly. “I don’t need to remind you that there is more to knighthood than what happens on the jousting grounds.”

She smiled in silent agreement and leaned into his side, seemingly oblivious of his attempt to put some space between the two of them. She reminded him of a cat sometimes, leaning in and hoping for a good ear scratch or a pet. And it was almost impossible to deny a cat — too easy to reach over without thinking to stroke soft fur and listen to the purrs of contentment — and it was near as easy to wrap an arm around Meryll and pull her closer, but he did not. Neither did he step away.

The time apart and his devotion to his role as a squire had given him the space he needed to build his barriers back up. And yet, he did not wish to hurt her by moving away. As a result, he was left to enjoy the warm weight of her, the subtle scent of fennel in her hair, the gentle pressure of her against his side as she breathed slow and even. It didn’t take him long to realize his barriers were perhaps not so strong as he had thought. Barristan reminded himself that he would not have permitted a woman this close when he had served in the Kingsguard, and with that in mind, he stepped back —  slowly, so she wouldn’t stumble —  and took her arm. “Come, my lady, I will escort you back to your quarters.” 

 

 

 

When they finally docked at Astapor, Daenerys sent Ser Jorah to arrange a meeting with Kraznys mo Nakloz, a slaver and one of the Good Masters of Astapor. The name of Daenerys Stormborn was known throughout the slave cities, and a meeting was graciously granted. Daenerys was to meet the slaver on the morrow at the Plaza of Pride, and he would send some of his men to her ships to take inventory.

The next morning at breakfast, Daenerys announced that she would be taking Arstan to the meeting along with her Bloodriders. There was no mention of Ser Jorah, strangely.

“I will accompany you as well, Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah insisted. Daenerys shook her head. “I need you here to protect the ships and my people while Kraznys mo Kakloz’s accountants are taking measure of our valuables. My Bloodriders will protect me, and Arstan will provide counsel.”

Ser Jorah scowled, but did not voice his opposition.

The slavers accountants arrived mid-morning, two for each ship, and when they boarded the Balerion, Jorah took them down to the ship’s cargo hold. Meryll and the Dothraki handmaidens stayed in the Captain’s Quarters — Irri and Jhiqui in the common room while Meryll read in Groleo’s office.

Closer to midday, Jorah and the two accountants came in to check the ship’s logs and confirm the cargo numbers. When they saw Meryll, the two accountants murmured to each other before jotting something down on parchment. They spoke some more but she couldn’t understand their heavily accented bastardized Valyrian. Jorah did not seem to have trouble understanding the two men.

“She is not up for trade,” he growled.

The two men looked at Meryll again, and then at each other. The one holding the parchment shrugged and crossed out an entry in his log book. Finally, they were done, and Ser Jorah escorted them off the ship.

“What was that about?” Meryll asked when he had returned.

“They were noting how many Unsullied you would be worth in trade.”

“Oh. Was it a lot at least?” she asked, trying to make light of his comment. Ser Jorah wasn’t having it.

“Do you find this humourous, Lady Meryll?” he asked sternly.

“No,” she said, feeling foolish. “I’m sorry, Ser Jorah. It’s just that this is not the first time I’ve heard mention of the value of a Westerosi woman on the slave market.”

If anything, Jorah looked even more angry.

“But I thank you for coming to my defense, ser,” she quickly added.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t trust you or the sellsword and his ancient squire, but that doesn’t mean I’d trade you to slavers,” Ser Jorah said.

Meryll couldn’t help but smile at the knight’s begrudging admission. “Faint praise, ser. I see we are well on our way to friendship.”

It was only a short while later that Daenerys and Ser Barristan returned to the ship. Meryll could only guess that the meeting had gone poorly, judging from the sullen look on Daenerys’ face and the way Ser Barristan’s knuckles were white from clutching his staff so tightly.

“How many men does Kraznys have for us?” Ser Jorah asked, dispensing with any of the usual greetings.

“None,” Daenerys snapped. “Those were no _men_ , Ser Jorah. They are nameless creatures made to kill babes and strangle puppies.”  It seemed as if the Targaryen Queen might cry, so distraught was she.

“Khaleesi, their train—” Ser Jorah began, but Daenerys raised her hand and struck him across the face. The crack of the blow caught the attention of all, and the ship deck went silent.

Ser Jorah brought his hand to his cheek and his mouth moved wordlessly for a moment before he could speak. “If I have displeased you, My Queen—”

Her fists were clenched at her sides, and her eyes flashed in anger. “Yes, you have displeased me. You never should have brought me to this vile place,” she hissed.

“Then I will give Captain Groleo orders to set sail on the morrow for wherever you wish to go, Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah said, mollified.

Daenerys turned around and stared out at the slaver city of Astapor. “I would leave this very second,” she said quietly. “But I cannot. There are eight thousand nameless slave soldiers for sale, and I must find some way to buy every one of them.” She turned on her heel then, heading toward her quarters. When Ser Jorah made to follow her, she spun around in anger. “ _Leave me_.”

After she had gone, it was a moment or two before the usual activities on the ship deck resumed. Ser Jorah disappeared below deck, and Meryll was left with Ser Barristan.

“Was it so terrible?” she asked.

Agitated, Ser Barristan tapped his staff against the planks of the deck a few times. “This Kraznys mo Nakloz is truly a loathsome and vile man,” he seethed. “The things he said of us, of Daenerys, I cannot even repeat the words.”

“He said those things to your face?” Meryll asked, surprised.

“Yes. But we pretended not to speak Valyrian and requested the use of a translator, and Kraznys seemed quite comfortable speaking his true opinions thinking that we could not understand.”

“That was very cunning of you, Ser Barristan.”

“It was Ser Jorah’s suggestion,” he said, and Meryll thought there might have been a smidgen of respect behind his scowl. “They have created the perfect soldier. They are given some sort of nightly concoction that makes it so they cannot feel pain. Their manhood is taken from them, root and stem, so they feel no desire. And they have known nothing but the clothes on their backs and the weapons in their hands, so they cannot be tempted by greed. And my Queen spoke true. They are given no names at birth, although each morning they choose a medallion from a barrel inscribed with their name for that day and that day only. The names of vermin, Lady Meryll. Black Rat, Brown Flea, Red Word. To remind them of their place.”

“That’s awful. And killing babes and strangling puppies?” she asked, dreading the answer.

“Part of their training, my lady. They are given puppies as boys, and at the end of their training, they must strangle their pets. Kraznys says it eliminates the weak. And then, of the soldiers that are left, few fail in the task that is the culmination of their training. They are sent to the slave auction and instructed to take a babe from its mother’s arms and kill it right there in front of her.”

It was unthinkable. “Did you see these soldiers?” Meryll asked.

“I did,” he said, eyes clouded over. “It is … it is as if they are dead inside.” He looked so haunted that Meryll could not help but reach out to take his hand. He snatched his hand away so quickly that she reeled back, feeling almost as though he had struck her.

“I am sorry, ser,” she said, unsure of what she had done wrong.

Ser Barristan was shaking his head and avoiding her eyes. “No, _I_ am sorry, my lady. It has been a troublesome day.” He sighed. “Kraznys was aware of some of the factions in Westeros that take vows — the maesters, the septons and septas, the silent sisters, the Night’s Watch and the Kingsguard — men and women who live only for duty. He called it an abomination, living as such, as though what they do to their Unsullied is somehow superior. Kraznys was of the opinion that no man could live in such a state, that all would eventually succumb to their baser instincts or be destroyed by the torment of temptation.” He turned toward the sea, hands tightening around the ship’s rail. ”It is not so! Men who keep their oaths become stronger each day, and temptation has less of a hold on them.”

Meryll said nothing. She thought there was some truth to Kraznys’ words. Perhaps Ser Barristan and a few others found strength in keeping their oaths, but she suspected many did not. Even the Septon at the Twins was known to occasionally enjoy the company of one of the washer women. To be deprived of the things that made one human — whether it be through the training of the Unsullied or the oaths of the Kingsguard — it was no way to live.

“Was your morning any better?” he asked.

“The slaver’s men tell me I’m worth at least twenty-five Unsullied.”

 

 

 

Barristan stared at her, aghast.

“It’s fine,” she said, waving his concern away. “Ser Jorah was there and made it quite clear that none of Daenerys’ people would be sold into slavery.”

Barristan didn’t know quite what to say. He had not told Meryll that Ser Jorah had been exiled for selling poachers to slavers back in Westeros. She could barely remember to address him as Arstan, and he didn’t think she’d be able to hide her disdain for Mormont had she known the truth. As Barristan struggled to find a response, he was interrupted by Jhiqui.

“Khaleesi would like to speak with you, Whitebeard,” Jhiqui said. “The Lady Meryll too, if she wishes to come along,” she added.

Daenerys was sitting with her dragons when Barristan and Meryll entered her quarters. Barristan kept his distance — though he knew their value, he did not trust the creatures. They had already proven to being fond of snapping at anyone who got too close other than their mother.

“You are blessed with the wisdom of age, Whitebeard,” Daenerys said, pushing Viserion gently from her shoulder. “You have seen these Unsullied, what say you?”

She was asking for his honest opinion, and so he would give to her. “I say no,” he said simply. “The Seven Kingdoms have been free of slavery for thousands of years. It is seen as evil by the gods — the old and new alike. If you land in Westeros with an army of slaves, you give many good men a reason to fight against you rather than with you.”

“I will need more than an exiled knight, a sellsword and his squire to take the Iron Throne,” she said.

Barristan nodded, having no argument to that. “Your Grace, I truly believe there are those in Westeros who would raise their banners for you. They still remember your brother fondly.”

“And my father as well?”

Lady Meryll shook her head. “Mad King Aerys,” she said softly. Barristan gave her a sharp look.

“Mad? Is that what the people called him?” Daenerys asked, frowning.

“It was just that your father sometimes had a temper when he was deep in his cups,” Barristan said. This was not the right time for Daenerys to hear about the atrocities her father committed.

Daenerys nodded, looking uncertain.

“Your Grace, if you wish to buy an army, there are many capable sellswords in Pentos,” Barristan said, changing the subject before she could ask any more questions. “A man who fights for coin is not as valuable as a man who fights out of loyalty, but still, it is better than a slave.”

Daenerys shook her head grimly. “Once we are in Pentos, I will be under the thumb of Illyrio once again. I will not come to him begging for favours.”

“Perhaps it is better to come a begger than a slaver,” Barristan said gently.

Daenerys stood suddenly, her dragons hissing in annoyance. “I do not believe you have the authority to speak on this matter, squire,” she said, flushing with anger. “I know what it is to be _sold_. Magister Illyrio and my brother sold me to Khal Drogo and his khalasar. Though he made me his queen, it might have been much worse. I will not return to a position of being controlled by another.”

Barristan looked down for a moment. “I am sorry, Your Grace, I do not mean to give offence.”

Daenerys shook her head, sitting once more. “No offence taken, but now you know I have a dragon’s temper. I asked for your counsel, and you gave it freely, which will never offend me. It is lies that offend me.”

Barristan stood and bowed before his queen. “Please excuse me, Your Grace, but Strong Belwas will be expecting his supper soon. Lady Meryll, would you care to assist me? I have difficulty balancing the tray with my staff.”

Meryll narrowed her eyes at him but agreed.

“What were you thinking, speaking that way of King Aerys?” he scolded her as soon as they were far away enough from the Captain’s Quarters. “That is her _father_ you were speaking of.”

Meryll halted and turned on him in outrage. “Yes, and does she not deserve to know what sort of king her father was? She should understand why the rebellion happened, Ser Barristan.”

“The rebellion happened for many reasons,” he said quietly. “I was there.”

But Meryll would not back down. “Still, it would not have succeeded had King Aerys not been such a tyrant. Daenerys just said that lies offend her and you would keep the truth of her father from her?”

“Now is not the time,” Barristan said gravely. “I need to reveal myself to her first, otherwise how can I speak of Aerys other than just repeating what the common people say. I need to win her trust. And then when she asks about her father, I will tell her all I know.”

Meryll shook her head. “Daenerys doesn’t even know to ask. And you cannot reveal yourself to her yet. Ser Jorah is very suspicious of you. I worry about what he might do if he finds out you have been deceiving them.”

“Did Ser Jorah say something to you?” Barristan asked.

 

 

 

Meryll told him about spying on the conversation between Ser Jorah and Daenerys, but felt no need to mention the kiss she had interrupted.

Ser Barristan rubbed at his face in dismay. “Meryll, what if you had been caught?”

“I wasn’t,” she said, shrugging.

Ser Barristan shook his head. “It is not only my own safety that I need to worry about should they discover our deceit, but yours as well. No more hiding in the shadows and listening in on conversations. And you will not mention King Aerys again either.”

He turned and left for the kitchens. Meryll did not follow, knowing full well his request for help had just been a ruse. Instead, she went back to the Captain’s Quarters.

“He did not need your help,” Daenerys said when Meryll returned.

“Your Grace?” Meryll asked, fear clutching at her heart. Had Daenerys heard their conversation?

“Whitebeard. He just wanted your company. He is fond of you, Lady Meryll.”

Meryll let out a sigh of relief. It seemed Ser Barristan wasn’t fooling anyone with his claims of ineptitude at carrying a tray. Curious, Meryll wondered if there was more to it. “Why do you say that, Your Grace?”

“It is how he looks at you.”

Once, Meryll might have thought the same thing, but of late, she could no longer see it. She could not fail to notice that Ser Barristan now moved away when he once would have drawn closer. He was still courteous, of course, ever courteous. Almost _overly_ courteous.

“Like how Ser Jorah looks at you?” Meryll dared to ask, turning the conversation away from Ser Barristan.

Daenerys considered Meryll for a moment. “No, nothing that lewd,” she finally said, with a look of distaste.

“Your Grace?”

“Lady Meryll. When you walked in on Ser Jorah and I that afternoon … let’s just say I was glad for your interruption. His advances were … not welcome.”

“A man could very well be executed for laying hands on his Queen in Westeros,” Meryll said.

“Yes,” Daenerys agreed. “But like you and Whitebeard, my knight and I have spent a considerable amount of time together. He is valuable to me. He is loyal and provides good counsel. But I do think it best that he is not alone with me any more than necessary. I was wondering if you could assist me with that.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“And when you and I are alone, or even just with Irri and Jhiqui, we could do away with the formalities? You could call me Dany?”

Meryll met her Queen’s eyes with sudden understanding. Daenerys was lonely. She was so young, and all of her companions were her loyal servants. She was their Queen first, friend and companion a distant second. “Yes. I would like that. _Dany_ ,” Meryll said with a smile despite the guilt that she felt. Daenerys was offering friendship and trust, and Meryll was already violating that trust.

“Your Arstan, he has a good face,” Daenerys said. “And there is a hidden strength in him, I think.”

“He is not _my_ Arstan,” Meryll said, surprising herself at the bitterness in her tone. “Have you come to a decision regarding the Unsullied?” Meryll asked, wanting to steer the conversation away from Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan. She did not wish to lie to Daenerys anymore than absolutely necessary.

“What do you think I should do?”

“I … I do not claim to be able to add any valuable insight on the matter. But … the idea of slavery is repulsive to me … could you really own an army of slaves, Your Grace?”

Daenerys shook her head, and for a moment, looked like a lost little girl. “What if — what if I set them free? After they had served me for a time, and I treated them fairly, perhaps they would stay with me out of loyalty?”

It was a noble thought. Meryll frowned, considering. “How will you know, Your Grace? How will you know when to offer them their freedom? You may wait and wait, afraid that their loyalty would not be strong enough to stay by your side once granted their freedom, and never take action.” Meryll couldn’t help but see the parallel to Barristan’s dilemma. He could spend more time trying to win the trust of his queen, but every moment that passed before he made his confession would make his betrayal seem all the greater.

“I know not, Lady Meryll. But I do not think I have a choice. I must have that army.”

 

 

 

Meryll woke the next morning to find Irri and Jhiqui already helping Daenerys get dressed. She had discarded her trousers and painted vest for a violet silk gown that left one breast bare. Daenerys noticed Meryll staring.

“Don’t look so shocked, sweetling, it is the latest style in Qarth.”

Meryll had thought the Pentoshi fashions revealing enough.

“I have another for you to borrow if you’d like,” Daenerys said with a teasing grin. “Or, if you have a gown of Westerosi style, that would be suitable as well. I want to take a full contingent to meet with Kraznys and the Good Masters. They will have their own slaves with them, so I wish to show them my people as well.”

Meryll still had one gown from home, though it was meant for travel and not diplomatic visits. It was made from a light lambswool dyed in a soft blue to match the colours of her house banners. Not ideal for the warm temperatures of Astapor, but she slipped it on over her linen shift regardless. If Ser Jorah could stand to wear wool and mail all day, she could survive one morning — especially knowing the alternative was to be barely covered in Qartheen silk.

When the women finally emerged from the Captain’s Quarters, Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan, Strong Belwas and Dany’s Bloodriders were waiting for them. As the two knights greeted their queen, Meryll noticed that while Ser Jorah could not help but stare at Dany’s bared breast, Ser Barristan’s gaze never seemed to sweep any lower than her face. Meryll also couldn’t help but notice that neither knight had eyes for anyone else but their queen.

 

 

 

An emissary from Kraznys met them at the docks and escorted them through the Harbour Gates into the city. This meeting would not be in the open space of an outdoor plaza, but at the great pyramid palace where Kraznys made his home. Daenerys and Mormont walked with the emissary and the Bloodriders followed close behind. The handmaidens were next, with Barristan and Strong Belwas bringing up the rear.

Walking behind the handmaidens, Barristan could see how Meryll’s gown was laced as tightly as it would go, yet still it hung loose over her frame. The months of travel by sea had not been easy on her. The gown was slate blue, a shade that suited her colouring, and it was of a winter weight, though the heat did not seem to bother her. Her hair had been done up in an elaborate braided crown, which Irri or Jhiqui must have helped with, because Meryll claimed that, left to her own devices, a single braid down her back was all she was capable of. It left her neck bare and revealed the sun-kissed skin of her shoulders, showing that her nose wasn’t the only thing to be freckled by the sun. Ser Barristan was not unaware of what had happened the last time Meryll wore her hair in such a manner.

“It is a good view from here, yes?” Strong Belwas said, nodding to the three women who walked in front of them.

“Strong Belwas. You must not speak so disrespectfully of the women,” Barristan scolded.

Belwas shrugged. “Strong Belwas is not the one undressing the Lady Meryll with his eyes.”

Barristan flushed and turned his gaze elsewhere. The sun beat down on the red brick that seemed to be everywhere. Even the relief of a stray breeze brought with it a fine red dust that settled into every crevice. “Bricks and blood built Astapor, and bricks and blood her people,” Barristan murmured. It was a nursery rhyme he had learned as a child, and now he could see his septa had spoken true. The streets were made of the same red brick that paved the plaza, as well as the city walls and giant pyramids.

They climbed stairs of red brick as the emissary led them into the pyramid palace. Up and up the stairs went, until they finally emerged into a lavish room with panels of coloured glass set into the walls. Two large doors leading to a garden terrace had been left open, providing a slight reprieve from the heat. The Good Masters of Astapor were already seated, each with at least two or three body slaves at their side.

Kraznys mo Nakloz greeted them and beckoned Daenerys to be seated on a lushly upholstered divan. The rest of her people would stand behind. Scantily clad slaves served tart persimmon wine in tall silver flutes while Kraznys introduced the other Good Masters. It seemed that four of them were named Grazdan, although Barristan supposed it was hardly surprising considering it was Grazdan the Great who had founded Old Ghis so many years ago. The oldest of the Grazdans seemed to command a bit more authority than the other masters, Barristan noted. If only age carried such respect back in Westeros…

Daenerys wasted no time after the introductions were finished. “I want to buy them all. Every last one of them.”

A small slave girl translated her words and the Masters immediately began to confer quietly, but it was obvious that they were excited by Daenerys’ interest. Daenerys waited patiently, sitting so straight that her back did not touch the divan. She had the bearing of a queen already, Barristan noted with approval.

Finally Kraznys looked up. “We have 8,000 Unsullied available, as well as 600 who have not yet completed their training.”

“I want them all. Even the little boys with their puppies,” Daenerys said once the slave girl was finished translating.

Again, the masters conferred in low voices and argued a bit among themselves. This time it was the old Krazdan that spoke. “Do you even have the gold to purchase such a number?” he asked.

Daenerys seemed to sit even taller. “You have taken an inventory of my ships, so you already know the answer to that. How many can I afford?”

This time, no discussion was needed. “You have perhaps enough to purchase half of a thousand,” Kraznys said. “Your crown would buy you another thousand.”

Her shoulders seemed to stiffen at the mention of her crown. “My crown is not for sale, but you may have my ships. What are they worth?”

Barristan stirred uncomfortably at her words. How would they ever return to Pentos without ships? And how would they get this army back to the Seven Kingdoms?

The Masters offered her another 2,000 Unsullied for her ships.

Barristan couldn’t help but think that the Masters were holding out for something better. They had known the worth of Daenerys’ belongings before this meeting ever began, and yet they still had put all 8,600 Unsullied on the bargaining table.

And it seemed that Daenerys knew as well, and likely knew the price the Masters would demand long before this moment. “Give me them all, and you may have a dragon,” she said.

Jhiqui gasped, and Barristan was speechless for just an instant, his mouth hanging open in shock. “ _No_ ,” he objected as soon as he found his wits. He moved in front of the divan and fell to one knee in front of Daenerys. “I beg of you, My Queen, do not do this. You can win your throne with dragons and without slaves.”

Daenerys’ eyes flashed in anger. “You forget who you speak to, old man. Ser Jorah, remove Whitebeard from my presence immediately.”

 

 

 

Meryll could not blame Dany for her harsh reaction to Ser Barristan’s objections. It was neither the place nor the time to be questioning his queen. But to trade one of the dragons … it was not only the loss of a dragon that Meryll was thinking of, but the idea of putting such a powerful creature into the hands of these men.

Ser Jorah seemed to take a little too much pleasure in roughly grabbing Ser Barristan by the arm and ushering him out the door onto the terrace. With Ser Barristan gone, no one else dared to protest the decisions of their queen. Daenerys apologized for the outburst and waited for the Good Masters’ answer. They did not have to discuss for very long.

“A dragon of our choice,” Kraznys said. “We want Drogon, the largest and healthiest.”

Daenerys agreed, and the deal was done. Kraznys offered his translator to Daenerys as token of a deal made in good faith. If the slave girl was bothered by being referred to as a token, she did not show it, and merely crossed the room to stand by Dany’s side.

They left through the terrace doors, and Dany swept past Ser Barristan without a word. It was not until they were far from the pyramid and walking through the open space of the Plaza of Pride that Daenerys turned on Ser Barristan in anger.

“I value your counsel, Arstan, and welcome it. _When we are alone_. But do not _ever_ dare to question me in front of strangers again,” she said in a low voice.

Ser Barristan looked down. “Yes, Your Grace,” was all he said. He was like a sullen child.

Daenerys turned away and addressed the slave girl in High Valyrian. “What is your name?”

The girl’s eyes went wide as she realized that Daenerys was speaking fluent Valyrian. “This one is called Missandei,” she stammered and bowed low.

“Good,” Daenerys said. “You will join me in my palanquin.” Aggo and Jhogo helped Daenerys and Missandei up into the palanquin and the whole group started off for the docks again.

Meryll walked by Ser Barristan’s side. “This is a grave mistake she is making,” he said softly. “You think I was wrong to speak out as well, I suppose,” he added when she did not respond.

Meryll did not want to argue with him. “Would you have questioned King Aerys or King Robert?” she asked.

“I have provided counsel to both of those kings in my life,” Ser Barristan said stiffly.

“Without being asked?” she prodded.

“No,” Ser Barristan admitted. “Though there were times that perhaps I should have.”

Meryll nodded, even though it was not quite the same. “Daenerys is young,” she said. “And a woman. It is hard enough for her to command respect. And then to have an older man tell her what to do in the middle of negotiations … you undermine her by treating her like a child.”

“She _is_ a child,” Ser Barristan said sharply.

“She is your queen,” Meryll said. “And a far better ruler than Joffrey.” And then she rushed ahead to catch up with Strong Belwas.

 

 

 

To say that Groleo was upset about the sale of his ships would have been a gross understatement. He and Daenerys argued long into the night before he finally realized he would have no say in the matter, and that Magister Illyrio was much too far away to come to his defence. Groleo would be a captain with no ships and there was nothing to be done about it. After Groleo stormed out, Daenerys locked herself in the Captain’s Quarters and forbade anyone else to enter.

Ser Barristan stood at the rail, brooding. His queen was angry with him. Lady Meryll was angry with him. He was angry with himself and coming to the slow realization that both women were right. And they were _women_ , not children. But he was also angry he could not provide counsel to his queen. Though she did occasionally ask his opinion and respected what he had to say, he couldn’t help but think that his words would have more weight coming from a knight of her father’s Kingsguard rather than the squire of Strong Belwas.

Adding to his dark mood, Strong Belwas and Meryll were sparring on the ship deck behind him. Ser Jorah shouted instructions at Meryll and occasionally stopped her to adjust her grip or to offer tips. Barristan had wanted to punch that smug look off of Mormont’s face when he escorted him out of the pyramid. And now the exiled knight had won over Meryll’s trust as well as his queen’s. Barristan bristled with annoyance until he couldn’t bear it any longer, and left the deck for the solace of the hold below.

 

 

 

In the morning, the trade would be completed in the Plaza of Punishment. Daenerys insisted on all of her people being present at the exchange. The women and children formed the inside of the convoy, and the warriors guarded the perimeter. Irri and Jhiqui rode in the palanquin with Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal while Daenerys rode her silver mare in front. Belwas and Ser Barristan walked on her right side, with Missandei and Meryll on her left. Ser Jorah was close behind, glowering at all who dared come too close to his queen. All those who could fight were armed — Daenerys wanted all to see the power of her small following as they walked through the streets of Astapor.

The Plaza of Punishment lacked the bronze statues of the Plaza of Pride, but featured a large wooden platform where rebellious slaves were racked, tortured and hanged for all to see. Missandei explained it was the first thing a new slave would see upon entering the city. Three flayed slaves currently decorated the rack.

The army of Unsullied was already present in the plaza, organized rank upon rank in their padded leather armour and spiked bronze caps. Behind the fully trained Unsullied stood the 5,000 who had not yet earned their caps. Some of the ones in the very back were still boys.

The Good Masters awaited Daenerys and her retinue, and were seated in sedan chairs surrounded by slaves. They dined on olives and figs and sipped at wine from tall glasses. Other Astapori had come as well, most likely to catch sight of the much anticipated dragons. Around the edge of the plaza stood many soldiers, some mounted and some not. The horses became skittish at the sight of the dragons, and their riders struggled to control them.

Kraznys stepped forward to greet Daenerys as she dismounted her silver with Ser Jorah’s assistance, and spoke to Missandei in Valyrian. “Tell her they are hers if she has our payment.”

Ser Jorah beckoned and the trade goods were brought forward. Piles of furs and skins, jars of fragrant and exotic spices, boxes of fine jewels and more. Dany’s people came forward in a long line, each laying more of the goods on the ground in front of Kraznys. It wasn’t even everything they had — there was only so much that could be carried.

“The rest awaits you on the ships,” Daenerys said.

“And the dragon,” Kraznys said, eyes feasting greedily on the palanquin where Drogon thrashed against his chains. Daenerys took hold of Drogon’s chain and he stilled for a moment, but when she handed the chain to Kraznys, Drogon immediately unfolded his leathery wings and hissed in displeasure. Kraznys seemed not to care and looked upon the dragon with wonder while handing Daenerys the ornate whip he held in his other hand.

“The Harpy’s Fingers,” he explained to Daenerys. “Your Unsullied army will obey whoever has it in hand.”

“It is done, then? They are mine?” Daenerys asked, staring out at the rows of Unsullied.

“It is done,” Kraznys confirmed, tugging at the chain and trying to pull Drogon away from the palanquin.

Daenerys mounted her horse, clutching the whip tightly in her hand. She spurred her silver on, and galloped down the first row of Unsullied. “It is done,” she cried in Valyrian. “You are mine!”

The oldest Grazdan turned at the sound of High Valyrian, but the others did not seem to notice. They were crowded around Kraznys, giving him advice on how to reign in the dragon. Drogon was stubborn and would not leave the palanquin. Thick smoke poured from his jaws and he snapped at anyone who drew too close. Meryll was reminded a bit of Ser Jorah and how he snapped when anyone got too close to Daenerys.

After Daenerys had circled around her army, she returned to Kraznys with a haughty look on her face. “It seems you are struggling,” she observed.

“He will not obey me,” Kraznys complained, tugging at the chains to no avail.

Daenerys raised her hand and struck Kraznys with her whip. Ser Jorah swore and pushed past Meryll toward his queen.

“A dragon is no slave!” Daenerys snapped. “Drogon!” The dragon whipped his black scaled head around to face his mother. “Dracarys!” she cried.

Drogon spread his wings and roared, a swirl of dark flames taking Kraznys directly in the face. The man screamed, his hair aflame, skin melting like molten metal. Chaos erupted across the square. The other Good Masters were screaming in terror, pushing and shoving at each other, trying to escape. The soldiers around the perimeter began to approach, though some of the horses refused to move.

Jhogo cracked his whip around the neck of a soldier who came too close, and Aggo calmly shot arrow after arrow into the approaching unit. Meryll followed Aggo’s lead and unslung her own bow. Belwas was near by, slashing at foes with the fierce curved blade of his _arakh_.

Old Grazdan shouted, “Spears!” and then, “Swords! _Unsullied!_ Defend your masters!” Meryll’s arrow took him in the mouth, putting a stop to his shouting. The two slaves who had been holding his sedan chair took off running and the old man fell to the ground, his blood pooling over the red bricks. None of the Unsullied moved to defend him.

They had a new master now.

Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan tried to stay between Daenerys and the advancing troops, but she had other ideas. She spurred her horse forward once again, riding down the many ranks of Unsullied.  “My Unsullied!” she cried. “Slay the Good Masters! Slay the soldiers and every man with a whip! But harm no child and free any slave you should see!” She cracked her whip in the air, and then dropped it. “Dracarys, Dracarys!” she cried and the Unsullied echoed her words, trampling the Harpy’s Fingers as they marched forward.


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my apologies for the long hiatus! here is a short chapter for you, hopefully more to come before too long

# Chapter Twelve

Barristan turned his horse to look back at his Queen’s contingent. Daenerys rode near the front of the procession, surrounded by her bloodriders, Mormont and Strong Belwas. Meryll and the handmaidens were close behind, followed by the newly acquired Daario Naharis and his sellsword company, the Stormcrows. And then came the rows and rows of Unsullied, led by their appointed leader, Grey Worm, who had insisted on keeping the name he drew the day that Daenerys freed him. She had granted each and every Unsullied their freedom, gave them the choice of serving her or leaving to live out their lives elsewhere should they choose. And not a single one left. Some of them were surely loyal to her, Barristan supposed, but just as many had likely stayed simply because they knew nothing else. Barristan was no stranger to a life of servitude, and he could well understand why the Unsullied chose to stick with the life they had always known.

She had also granted freedom to every slave in Astapor and Yunkai. Though she had organized a council of former slaves to rule over the cities, many chose to follow her to Yunkai rather than staying. None of them were trained men, and each was an additional mouth to feed — walking mouths, Ser Jorah called them. But Daenerys would not turn them away. “I cannot grant them their freedom and then forbid them to follow me,” she had insisted. And follow they did, the line of them stretching as far as Barristan could see.

Astapor had fallen in a day, its slaves turning against the masters and the Unsullied taking care of the rest. Yunkai was next, and though they had been prepared for Daenerys’ arrival, the city fell in the dark of night largely due to Daario Naharis’ efforts. The city had been defended by two sellsword companies — The Stormcrows and in a strange twist of fate, The Second Sons, but Daario Naharis and turned cloak and pledged his Stormcrows to Daenerys’ cause. The city had been defeated as well as many of the Second Sons but Mero had somehow escaped.

They continued their march down the road that ran alongside Slavers Bay, a long tail of freed slaves trailing behind them, and made their way to Meereen where Daenerys was determined to put an end to slavery in these lands. Barristan took his place back in the procession, pulling his horse up alongside Meryll’s.

She had been quiet in the days after the battle in Astapor and Barristan had cursed at himself when he finally determined the reason for her withdrawal. She had killed a man in Astapor — her first kill. Even after all the lives Barristan had taken in his many years of fighting, he still remembered the first time he killed a man in battle. She had dismissed his concern for a time but he was persistent and finally she admitted, “I never realized what a fragile thing life is. I shot an arrow, and a man dropped dead - a life, snuffed out, just like that.”

“It could just as easily been you, or me, or Dany,” she had continued. “But that is why we fight, I suppose —  to protect those we love.” With those words, he had known she would be fine, that she understood in the heat of battle, a life taken meant a life saved. And neither would she forget that every life was precious — any kill she made would lie heavy in her heart, and he was glad for that. Taking a life should never be easy.

Darkness soon fell, and Daenerys ordered a halt to the march. Though it was no small feat, setting camp for a host so large, Grey Worm’s Unsullied were quick and efficient, digging a deep ditch around the perimeter of the camp, and setting up tents in neat rows. Daenerys’ golden pavilion sat in the middle of the camp, protected on all sides. The freed slaves set up their own camp just beyond the army’s camp. This camp was larger, and had no tents. Livestock wandered around freely, and hordes of women, children and old men would sleep upon the ground.

Barristan circled the camp, checking the work of the Unsullied before realizing he was not needed — Grey Worm had everything well in hand. Returning to Daenerys’ grand tent, he found the Queen laughing at the antics of her new sellsword, Daario.

Barristan had never been fond of sellswords - men who fought for gold instead of honour - and this Daario Naharis was no exception. Yes, he had helped them take Yunkai with few casualties, but it had been a battle won with cunning and not valour. The Tyroshi sellsword had quickly won over the heart of Daenerys with his charisma and flair even though Barristan and Ser Mormont had advised her against putting too much trust in the man.

Daenerys looked up with a radiant smile as Barristan approached. “Whitebeard! We will have a celebration this evening — let the others know.”

Barristan frowned. “And what is it that we are celebrating, Your Grace?”

It was the sellsword who answered. “Victory, squire. We celebrate our victory at Yunkai, and we honour our beautiful queen,” he said, bowing before Daenerys in mock homage.

“And two crates of Tyroshi Pear Brandy, stolen from one of the masters of Yunkai,” Daenerys added with a girlish laugh.

For all her power, and dragons, and armies, Daenerys was still a young girl as she sometimes even claimed herself when it suited her to play the innocent. She was a good queen, and she put her people first, but she still yearned for the things that all young women yearned for - passion, poetry, laughter. Daario Naharis had all three, and he brought a sellsword company of 500 with him as well.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Barristan said, bowing stiffly and leaving the tent.

 

 

 

 

Astapor had fallen, the masters killed by the slaves, and then the slaves were set free. Yunkai hadn’t been so simple. Daenerys had shown her skill as a strategist, and proved she did not lack cunning. First she had met with Mero and his Second Sons, which had been a rude surprise for Meryll. Thankfully, Ser Barristan had not been at that meeting — Meryll suspected he would not have been able to let Mero’s lewd comments go unanswered. After Mero had left, Dany met with the three captains of the Stormcrows— Prendahl na Ghezn, a Ghiscari, Sallor the Bald from Qarth, and Daario Naharis, a flamboyant Tyroshi. She offered terms to each of the sellsword companies, asking them to join her service, and then gave them until morning to make their decision. Dany also met with an envoy of Yunkai and was unrelenting in her demands. She would accept nothing less than the freedom of each and every slave.

Daenerys had surprised all of her advisers that day, because she did not wait for morning to hear back from the sellsword companies as she had promised. She ordered an attack on the city that very night. Just before midnight, the sellsword captain Daario Naharis had snuck into the camp and presented a great gift to Daenerys: the heads of Prendahl na Ghezn and Sallor the Bald. He pledged his sword and his company to her service, claiming it was for her beauty. Later that night, Dany sent Ser Jorah, the Bloodriders and her Unsullied along with the Stormcrows to take the city. Ser Barristan, she had kept behind, which in Meryll’s mind, had been a mistake. Though Ser Barristan and Strong Belwas were excellent personal guards for Dany, if Ser Barristan had gone with the others, he would not have allowed Mero to escape the city. Still, it was a great victory.

Now, they would celebrate. A grand feast was held in Dany’s golden pavilion, complete with dancers and musicians and plenty of Tyroshi Pear Brandy, though Meryll couldn’t help but notice that Ser Barristan was abstaining. She was on her way across the tent to offer him a glass when Daario Naharis grabbed her by the hips and plopped her down on his lap.

“ _Daario!_ ” she gasped, unable to even sound cross. It had only been days since the Stormcrows had joined them, but already Daenerys was very fond of the sellsword. He had a charming way to him — things came out of his mouth that from any other man, Meryll would have rewarded with a hard slap, but somehow he made his inappropriate comments seem sweet rather than rude. As much as  Daenerys seemed to have accepted the Tyroshi, Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah did not share her fondness, and both men kept a very close eye on the sellsword.

“I must visit this Westeros someday if all the women are as lovely you as you and our queen,” he said, clinking his glass with hers. They drank, and then he leaned in to whisper in her ear. “Grandfather seems displeased with one of us. Is it you he glares at, or me?”

She followed his gaze across the tent, where Ser Barristan stood, vigilant as ever, at the door. Daario was not wrong — there was a particularly unhappy look on the old knight’s face — and upon catching Meryll’s eye, he began to make his way toward them.

“Don’t call him that,” she chided, giving Daario a playful swat. His only response was to pick up the bottle of brandy and begin to refill her glass. He was stopped by a very stern looking Ser Barristan, who placed his hand over the rim of the glass. Both he and Ser Jorah had been so ornery ever since Yunkai. Meryll gave him an admonishing look. “It’s a celebration. Perhaps you need to drink a little more as well, ser.”

 

 

 

 

Out of the corner of Barristan’s eye, he saw Mormont’s head turn upon hearing Meryll address him as ‘ser’. The knight of House Mormont then whispered something to Daenerys.

“I am no ser, Lady Meryll,” Barristan said in a warning voice. She was drunk. A dangerous thing, when she was the keeper of so many secrets, never mind the foolish way she was acting, carrying on with the sellsword. Already, Ser Jorah was suspicious, and every time she slipped up, they were one step closer to being caught. He was not unaware that every moment he continued to hide his identity from Daenerys, the consequences of being discovered grew worse. If it had been only himself, it would not have worried him so, but he had Meryll to consider as well. He would accept whatever punishment Daenerys saw fit for him but he did not wish any harm to come to Meryll. He needed to find the right time to reveal his true identity, preferably to Daenerys alone and not to the ever suspicious Mormont. 

Meryll’s eyes widened as he called her out on her mistake and she recovered quickly. “Well, you’d think after so many years of squiring, they’d give you an honourary knighthood.” She lifted her glass. “I dub you Ser Whitebeard!”

“No!” shouted the Tyroshi. “Ser Grandfather!”

The tent erupted in laughter as toasts were made to ‘Ser Grandfather’. Though he was seething inside, Barristan smiled and bowed with a flourish. A former Lord Commander of the Kingsguard would be bothered by such nonsense, but an old squire, not so much. After the excitement had died down, he took his place as sentry outside the tent door, having had about as much celebrating for one evening as he could stomach.

 

 

 

 

The celebration went long into the night. Meryll had danced with Daario, Aggo and even a reluctant Ser Jorah but Ser Barristan did not return to the tent after the humiliating toast. Many of the Dothraki were still dancing and playing games when Meryll fell asleep in an unoccupied corner of the tent. Morning came too soon.

They broke camp shortly after dawn — the tents were taken down and everything was packed up and loaded onto the wagons or horses. With Grey Worm directing his Unsullied, it took no time at all, and soon they were back on the dusty road toward Meereen. The land here was strange and unforgiving. Barren and dry, the heat unrelenting, and there was sand … everywhere. All of that could be tolerated, one got used to it after a time. Meryll was more bothered by how Ser Barristan wouldn’t even look at her.

Even when she guided her horse to walk next to his, he stared straight ahead, only nodding or giving the most perfunctory responses to anything she said. She couldn’t say much — there was always someone within earshot, but if he would only look her way, he’d know what she wanted to say. It wasn’t until past midday that Dany called for a short break and Meryll was able to catch Barristan alone.

He stood on the edge of the sandstone ridge overlooking the bay and when she went to stand beside him, he finally turned his gaze upon her. It was not often that he had looked at her without some affection or softness in his eyes, and so the coldness she saw there now made her heart sink. She had come here with the intention of apologizing — she’d had the entire morning to find just the right words to say — but he spoke first.

“You acted foolishly last night. Do you understand what is at stake here — if our deception is discovered?”

She was so tired of having this argument. In her mind, it would be much simpler to just confess the truth to Dany but Ser Barristan remained obstinate. She suspected it was only her own safety that kept him from confessing — in fact, she was quite confident that if he had come across the Narrow Sea by himself and not with her, he would have immediately revealed his true identity to Daenerys. Instead, he clung doggedly to his newfound role as a squire and everyone in Dany’s entourage had accepted that role despite his unusual age.

“I know, but it was a mistake,” she said. “And no one suspected anything.”

Ser Barristan was indignant and seemed to grow taller at her attempt at reason, and he clutched his staff a little tighter. “There you are mistaken, My Lady. Mormont most certainly noticed and his suspicion grows every day, I see it in the way he looks at you and I. I must forbid you from drinking anymore, you are a danger to both of us when you are not in full control of your actions.”

Her reaction was immediate. “You cannot forbid me, I am not a child.”

“Then do not act like a child,” was his measured response.

His words cut deep. She did not like this feeling — that he was disappointed in her, that she had failed to live up to his expectations. She opened her mouth again to apologize sincerely when they heard Strong Belwas bellowing in the distance.

“Ser Grandfather! Strong Belwas waits for his midday meal!”

Ser Barristan scowled, turning in Belwas’s direction. Then he looked back at Meryll. “I do not mind playing at squire, but because of your antics last night, now I must endure this mockery of my knighthood as well.”

There was little heat in his voice, they were not words spoken in anger, but far worse: _disappointment_. She felt shame for her actions.

“I am so sorry, Ser, I—”

“ _Do not call me_ _‘Ser’_.” His words were cutting as he turned away from her and walked back to the procession. He did not look back.

The day didn’t get much better after that. Ser Barristan kept his distance from her, riding further back with Grey Worm and the Unsullied. As the long procession crept closer to Meereen, the lands grew dryer and more desolate when it should have been the opposite. Meereen knew of their coming and it appeared they had withdrawn within the safety of the city walls. Fields had been either harvested or scorched, and any wells they passed had clearly been poisoned. But the worst part was the children.

On every mile post up the road to Meereen, a slave child had been nailed up, their bellies sliced open and one arm tied up to point the way to the city. Daario had given the order to have them taken down before his queen could see, but Dany overheard him and put a stop to it. “I will see each and every one of them, and I will remember,” she said.

It was not an easy sight to look upon. Just the very idea of slavery was repugnant to Meryll, but to treat children in this way — as throw away objects — it was difficult to even fathom. As they passed the mile posts, all one hundred sixty-three of them, Daenerys would stop before each one, her face stoic and determined as each child was taken down and buried. Meryll did her best to follow her queen’s example, but by the time they came to Meereen sitting on the salt coast where the river met the sea, she could no longer bear to look.

Meereen was much larger than either Astapor or Yunkai, built with bricks of many colours. The city had high walls to keep out its enemies, and defensive towers at each corner. In the distance, the Great Pyramid could be seen, a monstrosity that towered over the city and was adorned by a gaudy bronze harpy on its peak. The city gates remained closed to Daenerys and her people and so an order was given to set up camp.

Meryll found herself away from the flurry of activity, walking alongside the river. Though it was nothing like the rivers of home, she still seemed to be drawn to the waters. She stared out into the distance, but it was the slave children that she saw, a horrid sight that could not be unseen. She had held back showing any emotion the entire day, but now it came like water breaking through a dam, and she fell to her knees, retching.

A strong hand pulled her to her feet and she looked up to see Strong Belwas.

 

 

 

 

Barristan had seen her walk off as the camp was being set up. It had been a hard day for everyone. Wars were not meant to be fought with children. Children should have been held sacred, left untouched by the horrors of war as much as possible, but that was not the way of these Meereenese Great Masters. He had watched as Meryll fought to stay strong as they passed child after child, mutilated beyond what the mind could comprehend. But she had a soft heart, and he was not surprised to see her walk away from the others to grieve privately.

He ached to go to her, to hold her in his arms and offer comfort, but he sent Strong Belwas instead. She evoked too many strong emotions in him, the jealousy he felt the night before, watching her with Daario Naharis, and then the anger and betrayal he had felt when she used him as the fodder for her jokes … it had been a sobering moment. He had allowed her to have too much of a hold over him. He needed to be focused on his Queen’s safety and not the sweet smiles she offered to that philandering sellsword. 

He watched from a distance as Strong Belwas picked her up from the ground and patted her arm as he said something that must have been humourous, because she laughed as she wiped the tears from her face. Barristan turned away then, making his way back to the camp where he could hear a commotion coming from in front of the city gates. As he climbed back up the slope from the river, the city gates came into view, where a Meereenese rider was circling and taunting Daenerys’ army. From atop the city walls, the Meereenese cheered for their hero.

It only took him a moment to find Daenerys standing with Daario Naharis and Ser Jorah, each arguing their case for why they should be the one to meet the challenger. The Queen seemed to be of mind to ignore it but when she saw him approaching, she asked his opinion on the matter.

“If I may, Your Grace – you cannot ignore him, your people will think you weak if you do not answer the challenge,” he said mildly. They watched as the Meereenese champion dismounted, lowered his trousers and proceeded to urinate in their direction. Daenerys was quiet for a moment, and then nodded, almost to herself.

“Tell Strong Belwas I have need of him.”

 

 

 

 

Meereen’s champion continued to ride around, doing and yelling vile things - or at least from Meryll’s limited Valyrian, what she could understand sounded vile.

Daenerys had let Ser Jorah and Daario Naharis state their cases and offer to fight for her, and she turned both of them down, choosing instead the sellsword, Strong Belwas. Meryll could see how Ser Barristan’s fingers clutched at his staff — he wanted to be Daenerys’ champion and ride out to meet the Meereenese warrior. Barristan was a symbol of old Westeros, just as the Meereenese champion was a symbol of Old Ghis. It would have been an appropriate match, speaking volumes when the legendary knight was inevitably victorious – but of course, among present company, the knight was just a squire, and so such a match would not be considered.

In any case, Meryll thought Dany’s decision was wise. Ser Jorah was needed at her side – an advisor that understood the politics and also the battle tactics of Westeros. Daario was also crucial to her cause – he was loyal to Daenerys, but his sellsword company knew no master but coin. Without him, in all likelihood they would leave, perhaps even to take a contract to defend one of these slave cities. Strong Belwas was a former pit fighter who understood the fighting tactics of these people, and if he fell, he would be mourned, but his absence would not greatly affect Daenerys when she turned her eyes west to take the Iron Throne.

The huge eunuch bowed before his queen and then walked in a casual manner to meet the Meereenese fighter. Strong Belwas wore no armour – only trousers and a tiny leather vest that barely covered his impressive belly – but he had his razor-sharp arakh in hand. Meryll moved to stand beside Ser Barristan, wanting to hear his candid commentary on the battle that was about to unfold. He did not speak as she approached, but neither did he move away. It was progress, if nothing else.

“Tell me what you see,” she said, smiling up at him.

Ser Barristan was silent, not turning to meet her gaze. They both watched as Strong Belwas plodded toward the city in his usual slightly bow-legged gait. The crowds up on the city walls yelled and jeered at the pit fighter, some even throwing refuse down over the wall. The Meereenese warrior mounted his horse and waited for Strong Belwas to approach.

“A more chivalrous man would dismount,” Ser Barristan commented idly.

Meryll watched nervously as the mounted warrior pointed his feathered lance and charged at Strong Belwas. “Should he have worn armour?” she asked. He seemed almost absurdly bare on the battle field as the champion of Meereen bore down on him.

“It would only slow him down,” Ser Barristan explained. “This is a different type of fighting than you or I are used to seeing. There is no armour worn by the fighters in the pits — it’s more exciting for the crowds if there is blood being spilt.”

At the last minute, Strong Belwas dodged the warrior’s lance and the crowds roared in response.  “You see, Strong Belwas is merely putting on a show,” Ser Barristan continued. “He could have easily scored a hit on horse or rider, but instead, he entertains the crowds.”

Strong Belwas and the Meereenese champion continued their little dance, horse and rider charging with lance raised, and the pit fighter spinning aside, always at the last possible moment. Ser Barristan continued to share his observations with Meryll, commenting on the similarity of technique between the Meereenese champion and Westerosi knights when jousting, and the differences between weapon types.

The crowd became restless after a few moments of Strong Belwas’s evasive tactics, and on the next charge, the pit fighter swung his mighty arahk at the horse’s legs. The horse made a terrible sound as it fell to the ground, and the Meereenese champion tumbled from the saddle, rolling away to avoid being crushed or kicked by the horse. The crowd went silent as their champion suddenly appeared to be in peril, but they broke out in cheers as he quickly jumped to his feet.

The two warriors circled each other for only an instant before their blades met, a whirl of silver and steel that the eye could hardly follow. Their blades clanged together again and again at a furious pace, and then as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Strong Belwas stepped back, his chest awash in blood, and his arakh was impaled in his opponents helmet. With a roar, Strong Belwas wrenched the blade free and in a single movement, cleaved the Meereenese warrior’s head clean from his shoulders.

Meryll let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. Ser Barristan seemed nonplussed. “Strong Belwas let the Meereenese champion draw first blood quite deliberately,” he said with a chuckle.

Obviously the old knight had been able to follow the minute details of the fight much better than Meryll had. She couldn’t have said who hit who or when.

“It was perhaps arrogant of Belwas, though it does show his boldness,” Ser Barristan continued. “He takes pride in his many scars from the men he has killed, and no doubt he knew it wouldn’t take him long to kill his opponent so he had to let him get his slash in right at the beginning.”

Strong Belwas fetched the head from where it had rolled off to and held it high above his head before tossing it toward the city gates. The crowds were silent. Then he turned back toward what was left of the body, and dropped his trousers.

“Oh no, he isn’t..” Meryll started, turning away.

She caught Ser Barristan’s twinkling eyes and couldn’t help but share a small smile before they both burst into laughter. The sudden moment of normalcy evoked a deep feeling of regret for her drunken words the evening prior. “Ser Barristan, I—”

He shook his head, suddenly sobered. “You need not apologize again, child — it is forgotten.” 

His words were gentle but still she felt that little burn of shame as he once again referred to her as a child. She forced a smile. “Good enough. I should go make sure Strong Belwas sees a healer for that injury.”

 

 

 

 

Barristan did not miss her small flinch at the word ‘child’ and he cursed himself inwardly — he knew how much she hated between referred to that way, and yet he had let it slip regardless. He had said it more as a reminder to himself than any slight to her, but he could see she did not take it that way. He watched her walk away, wondering why neither of them could seem to find the right words when once it was so easy between them.

Trusting that Strong Belwas was in good hands, he made his way to the grand pavilion where Daenerys was gathering her captains and commanders. He had not been invited to sit on Daenerys’ war council, he was only a squire after all, but it would not be amiss for him to stand guard at the tent door. He stood ever stalwart and listened carefully, not unlike his time as a Kingsguard in the Red Keep. There was talk of going over the walls, of going under the walls, of attacking by river or sea, but one by one, each of these was argued against and discarded. The advisers spoke of the possibility of building siege towers, but there was no wood available, thanks to the Meereenese clearing the land before withdrawing behind their walls. Besides, the city had strong defenses against a siege — harpy heads lined the walls, and Daario claimed they were capable of pouring boiling oil on away who dared to storm the city.

Since it was mostly Daario who spoke against every suggestion made by the other advisers, Daenerys gave him a pointed look and asked if he had any suggestions. “The sewers,” he suggested in such a manner as if it was obvious. “I once escaped this city through the sewer tunnels but getting out was surely easier than it would be getting in,” he warned. “There are iron grates but some will have rusted through. The filth is waist high and the tunnels are a maze of brick, not to mention the _creatures._ But it is not impossible. We could sneak in under the cover of darkness and then open the gates from the inside.”

The Unsullied captains immediately argued against this course of action, as did the Dothraki. Their strength was in the battlefield, not in this sneaking around at night. “These sewers do not sound promising. Give us rams,” Grey Worm said, “and we will storm the gates or die in the attempt.”

“I will not squander Unsullied lives,” Daenerys said. “We must find another way.”

The men continued to argue among themselves for a moment longer before Daenerys stood. “Leave me,” she dismissed them. “I must think on this.” Obediently, her advisers left the tent in silence, though none of them looked pleased. No doubt the arguments would continue in a new location. Barristan waited to see if his queen would ask for his opinion.

“Whitebeard,” came her next summons, “have my silver saddled. And Lady Meryll’s horse as well. I wish to ride.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 12, 2019 -- reposted - fixed some grammatical errors and cleaned up some small continuity problems. i'm gearing up for a new chapter -- so sorry for the long wait!

# Chapter Thirteen

They rode along the shoreline, along the fringes of the sprawling camp. Meryll could only imagine what this land had looked like before it was razed. All that was left was scorched earth — lands that once were verdant olive groves, now burnt to ashes. Though they stayed close to the water, the waves lapping gently at the horses feet, still the people from the camps were drawn by Daenerys’ presence.

As they passed the Unsullied’s war camps, the eunuchs paused in their training exercises to kneel as their Queen passed. South of the war camps lie the camp of the freedmen. The contrast to the orderly war camps could not be greater. The freedmen camp was noisy and chaotic with children and livestock roaming freely. Several fires burned through the camp, the people cooking whatever meat they could scrounge up. The slaves had been armed with weapons taken from Astapor and Yunkai, but they were not trained in battle and would be of little use in a fight.

Several of the children ran to the horses, stretching their little arms up to touch the hem of Daenerys’ gown. They called her ‘mother’ in their own language, and Dany smiled down at them, occasionally reaching down to touch the hand of a child. Ser Barristan was alert and watchful as the children crowded round, but he stayed relaxed until some of the men and women joined the crowd. Some asked for a blessing, others begged for food. Many believed that good fortune could be had from the merest touch of their queen, and soon Dany’s horse was surrounded, overwhelmed by the arms reaching to touch her.

Meryll could sense Ser Barristan’s discomfort and she was not surprised when he dismounted so he could make his way over to Dany. Meryll followed suit, and being closer to Dany, she was able to reach the silver mare’s side before Barristan. Daenerys seemed unbothered by the crowd, and she patiently listened to those begging for boons or favours.

Daenerys was speaking with a young woman, round with child, when an arm reached out, grasped her by the arm and yanked her off her horse. Without taking a moment to think, Meryll moved around the horse, dimly aware of Ser Barristan shouting behind her. She saw the blade coming, just a flash of silver out of the corner of her eye, and she threw herself at Dany, knocking her flat to the ground. Fiery pain burst along her back as the blade scraped bone. Dany struggled underneath her, but Meryll stayed where she was, anticipating another blow from her attacker.

It did not come.

She heard a roar of rage from Ser Barristan, and then the clashing impact of sword hitting the hard wood of his staff. Meryll tried to rise but the shooting pain through her back and shoulders sent her sprawling back over Dany again. Dany’s eyes were wide with shock, but she recovered quickly and began pushing Meryll off of her.  Rolling to the ground beside Dany, Meryll was finally able to see what was happening.

A furious fight was taking place between them and the shore, Ser Barristan’s long wooden staff a blur as it parried each blow of the sword with ease. His attacker was a huge man, his balding head peeling in the sun. But even from here, Meryll could see the glint of green in the man’s eyes.

“It’s Mero,” Dany said from beside her. She was right — it was none other than Mero, who had escaped capture at Yunkai but apparently hadn’t gone very far. He had shaved off his locks and great red beard. _Had he been travelling with the freedmen the entire time?_ Meryll winced even at the gentle touch of Dany’s hand on her shoulder. “Meryll, you’re bleeding,” her queen said, but Meryll shook her head, unable to pull her eyes from the battle in front of her. “I’m fine,” she said, though she could feel the hot flow of blood down her back, soaking through her tunic.

There was a terrible cracking noise, and for an instant Meryll thought Ser Barristan’s staff must have broken in two, but no, Mero cried out and fell to one knee, broken bone protruding from his other leg. Another furious swing of the old knight’s staff, and Mero was on his back, blood running into the foaming waves of the bay. Ser Barristan walked over to the bleeding sellsword, and slammed the butt of his staff down on Mero’s head one last time.

 

 

 

His face was grim as he looked down at the waves rolling back into the bay, pink with blood. He never should have let his guard down — he should have made sure to stay by his queen’s side. He would not have made such a mistake when he was a kingsguard. It was something a rookie would have done, becoming too relaxed in the presence of the queen and her loyal subjects.

Those loyal subjects rushed passed him then, sticks and rocks in their hands as they crowded over the corpse, eager to get a blow in on the man, quite dead, who had dared to lay a hand on their queen. Barristan turned away from the bay to see Daenerys bent over, trying to help Meryll up off the ground. Both women were covered in blood, but he could not immediately tell whose it was. As he hurried over to help, Meryll fell limp in Daenerys’s arms, sending them both falling to the ground once more.

Barristan fell to his knees in the sand beside them, his hand closing around Daenerys’ arm and shaking her gently to get her attention. “Your Grace. Are you harmed?” Every kingsguard knew the safety of their liege came first, no matter what, and old habits died hard.

Daenerys shook her head, and shrugged off his hand to crouch over Meryll. “No,” she said, eyes full of grief, “Meryll shielded me from Mero’s attack. She’s lost so much blood.” Even as she spoke, the blood pooled in the sand around them.

He turned his attention to Meryll, who opened her eyes only long enough for him to see that they were glassy with shock. “Ser—” she said weakly, but managed nothing more. Her skin was pale, much too pale. Barristan looked behind him, trying to find the horses. Only Daenerys’ silver mare remained, the other two mounts having run off once the battle started. He stood and leaned down to pull Meryll up to her feet. She would need to walk on her own. Her eyes fluttered open once more, but he could tell she was losing consciousness fast.

“You must carry her, Arstan, she cannot walk,” Daenerys said, pointing out the obvious.

Barristan shook his head in resignation. “No, Your Grace, I cannot protect you if I am carrying her.”

Daenerys looked aghast. “I _command_ you to carry her. My people will keep me safe.”

He looked doubtfully at the crowd of freedmen, most of them only partially dressed, and less than half of them armed. He had been a kingsguard for more of his life than not, and the importance of keeping his liege safe had been woven into his very being over the years. He stood, paralyzed with indecision, his unwillingness to leave his queen unprotected overcoming his better judgement. He was saved only by the wild cries of approaching Dothraki horsemen.

Daenerys took her silver by the reins and led her to him. “You and Meryll will take my silver. I will ride with my _khas._ ”

Barristan nodded, finally seeing sense in his queen’s orders. Her khas was sworn to protect her. He was a mere squire, not her queensguard. The two of them lifted Meryll in the saddle, and he mounted behind her, keeping her from falling as he spurred the horse back toward the main camp.

 

 

 

She only remembered bits and pieces of the short trip from the freedmen camp to Dany’s main pavilion: the thundering of the hooves of the Dothraki horses following close behind them, the soft worn linen of Ser Barristan’s tunic as she slumped back against him, and Missandei meeting them at the tent, a healer in tow.

There were no maesters in Essos as far as Meryll knew, but there was a Yunkish freedman who was trained in the healing arts. She was laid on the floor of the tent on her stomach, her tunic sliced down the back and carefully removed. She refused the offered milk of the poppy, but at Ser Barristan’s urging, she took a few mouthfuls of dreamwine and even then, she screamed through the cleaning of the wound with vinegar. After that, the stitching didn’t seem so bad, though she grabbed and clutched and clawed at whatever was within reach, which was Ser Barristan’s arm more often than not. Then the healer insisted on packing the wound with strips of linen soaked in fire wine. _That_ was excruciating, though at that point she was too exhausted to scream. Still, sweat poured down her brow and she clenched her jaw hard to keep from crying out. Eventually the hot flames of pain died down to a fiery sting, and then finally to a burning itch.

Despite being hot, she was covered with a cool linen sheet and she lay there, half in a daze as the dreamwine began to take its effect, too little too late, still clutching at Ser Barristan’s hand. Though she could hear the others talking quietly around her, she did not have the wherewithal to focus on what they were saying. It wasn’t until Ser Jorah stormed into the tent that she truly wakened again. 

“What has happened?” he was asking, stomping in his heavy boots around the pavilion tent. “Khaleesi, are you hurt?” he asked, his voice softening as he approached his queen. 

Dany’s voice was steely when she responded. “Mero has been with us since Yunkai, hiding among the freedmen and waiting for a chance at revenge. Arstan killed him.”

Meryll did not have the energy to sit up, but she turned her head to the side to watch as Ser Barristan rose from his place beside her and went to his queen. There, he knelt. “Your Grace, I am an old man, and shamed. He should have never gotten close enough to harm you — I was lax in my duties.”

Ser Jorah was frowning. “Mero is a seasoned warrior. Are you telling me that this old squire killed him? With what? His walking stick? You are more than you claim to be, old man.”

His words were accusatory and Daenerys was quick to speak in Ser Barristan’s defense. “A squire no longer,” she said. “Twice he has saved my life now. I wish you to knight him, Ser Jorah.”

_“No,”_ came the insistent response from both men, taking Dany aback.

“I am already more a knight than you,” Ser Barristan said coldly, glaring at Ser Jorah.

Meryll tried again to sit up but failed, whimpering softly as she felt the sharp pain of the stitches tugging at her skin.

Daenerys looked confused and unhappy with this unexpected turn of events. “I thought you were a squire,” she said, frowning.

Ser Barristan bowed his head. “I was, Your Grace, a very long time ago. In my youth, I squired for House Swann, and now I squire for Strong Belwas. But for the years between, I have been a knight of Westeros. I have withheld this from you, and for that, I beg your forgiveness.”

Daenerys looked stricken, and Meryll felt awful. There were so few people Dany trusted, and she was about to find out that two of them had been lying to her the entire time she had known them. “What else have you withheld from me?” Daenerys asked, her voice only quavering the slightest bit. “You will tell me _now_.”

“Arstan is not my true name, Your Grace, though it was a name that many of my ancestors honoured.”

Ser Jorah made a disgusted sound. “I should have known. You looked so damned familiar — the beard, and the long hair, they fooled me.”

“You know this man?” Daenerys asked, turning to Ser Jorah.

“I saw him only a few times, my queen — at tournaments, during battle — but this man is known by every man in the Seven Kingdoms. Before you stands Ser Barristan the Bold, Lord Commander of the Usurper’s Kingsguard — the man who betrayed your house to kneel to the Baratheons.”

To Ser Barristan’s credit, he didn’t so much as blink at Ser Jorah’s damning words.

Dany only looked confused. “You have saved my life twice. If Robert sent you to kill me, you have done a very poor job indeed. To who do you owe your loyalty? I want your answer on your honour as a knight.”

Ser Barristan raised his head to look his queen in the eyes. Even from here, Meryll could see the tears in his eyes.

“Yours, if you’ll have me,” he said quietly. “I took Robert’s pardon, Your Grace, I shall not deny it, and I have come to regret that decision. I wish to serve the rightful ruler,  a true king — or queen — and die in his or her service.”

Ser Jorah scowled. “I can grant that wish for you, old man.” When Dany held up a hand to quiet him, he ignored her and continued speaking. “Khaleesi, do not be fooled by this man. The day your father died, this man turned cloak to serve the usurper. He has no loyalty to your family, only to whoever sits the throne. I knew something was off from the day we met him. _Her,_ too,” he said, turning to gesture to Meryll. “A _bard,_ ” he spat in disgust, walking over to glare down at her. “They are _spies,_ Khaleesi. You have been duped. They are both traitors to your crown.” He reached down and grabbed Meryll by an arm, hauling her to her feet with a hard yank.

 

 

 

Ser Barristan jumped to his feet at the sound of Meryll’s anguished cry, but found himself immediately surrounded by Dothraki spears. He could have fought his way to Meryll’s side, but he knew it would do nothing for his and Meryll’s standing with Daenerys. He stood still, dropping his staff, fists tightening at his sides as Meryll fell limp to the ground, passed out from the pain. There was a moment of chaos as everyone shouted, but it was Daenerys’ voice that made the others fall silent.

“I will hear him out, Ser Jorah. I will have no more outbursts from you,” she said coldly.

Perhaps if he hadn’t been so angry at Ser Jorah for his manhandling of an injured woman, he would have tempered his words some, but then again, perhaps not. “Before I took Robert’s pardon, I fought against him at the Trident. You were on the other side of that battle, Mormont, were you not?” Ser Barristan did not stop there. “In my time serving on Robert’s small council, I was privy to many reports. Lord Varys had spies watching you, Your Grace, and because of that, I heard the news when you wed Khal Drogo, and also when you became pregnant with his child. I knew because there has been a spy at your side all this time, feeding information to the Spider in exchange for gold and favours.”

Daenerys’ face went pale as she turned in shock to stare at Mormont. “Tell me this is a lie, Ser Jorah. Tell me Ser Barristan is mistaken.”

Mormont threw his sword to the ground in anger. “The Others take you, Selmy,” he swore before turning to kneel in front of his queen. “Khaleesi, you must believe me. It was only at the beginning, but once I came to know you and- and _love_ you-”

“Stop,” Daenerys said quietly. “For gold … you betrayed me for gold,” she said, almost to herself. “Is that all they promised you?”

Mormont shook his head in shame. “No, my queen. Varys promised that I would be allowed to return home, that my lands and titles would be returned to me.”

Daenerys was quiet for a moment, and neither man dared to speak unbidden. “I had been told that the knights of Westeros were honourable men, but it seems I have been sent the worst of them. I don’t want to look at you any longer. I wish you both to leave.”

Ser Barristan took a step toward Daenerys but was once again stopped by the spears of her _khas_. He had failed in convincing her, but it seemed she would send him away rather than executing him for treason. “Where do you wish us to go, Your Grace?” he asked.

“To hell. To Robert. I don’t care,” she sputtered for a moment before a look of resignation came across her face. “No. You will be of some use to me before I rid myself of you. You will go into the sewers of Meereen and open the gates for my army, or you will die trying.”

 

 

Meryll woke up with a start, taking a moment to realize she was still in the pavilion tent. Someone had removed the rest of her clothing, and covered her with linens and furs. She had slept fitfully at best, her sleep plagued with nightmares — nightmares of children nailed to signposts, of Ser Barristan nailed to a signpost, nightmares of Drogon growing large as a house and soaring over the ridge and breathing his fire upon Meereen until everything burned. She was hot with fever and her back and shoulder throbbed with pain. It took her a moment to realize that Daenerys was crouched over her, pushing a damp strand of hair away from her face.

“It was only a dream, you’re safe here,” Dany was saying.

The events of the day came back to her suddenly, a whirlwind of accusations and confessions, with Barristan finally revealing his true identity to the Targaryen queen.

“Where is Ser Barristan?” she asked, trying to push herself up but the searing pain down her back made her rethink that decision. She lowered herself back down onto her belly at Dany’s urging.

“I have sent him and Ser Jorah under the city through the sewers,” Daenerys said simply, as if she had sent them to fetch a pail of water.

So she had sent them to their deaths, Meryll thought. But then, perhaps Daenerys had not heard the story of the Hero of Duskendale. Ser Barristan had overcome numerous seemingly impossible situations in his life, and she had faith that he would survive this trial as well. She _had_ to have faith, because if he did not return, what would happen to her?

“I’m sorry to have disturbed your sleep, Your Grace,” she said. “But those children, the ones the Meereenese killed, they haunt me even in my sleep.”

Daenerys shook her head. “You did not disturb my sleep, Meryll, I don’t think I could sleep if I tried.” She sighed, sitting back on her knees. “I have not forgotten those children either. Rest assured, I will seek justice for them.”

“You are a just queen,” Meryll said, and meant it. She had witnessed Dany’s justice in Yunkai. A beautiful and terrible justice. It was then that Meryll had known, known it in her heart. Ser Barristan had risked everything he had, his very life and reputation, that Daenerys Stormborn would be a worthy queen, and he had chosen right. But would he suffer for his choice? “What of your two wayward knights?” she asked carefully. “What justice will you mete out to them?”

Dany sat quietly for a moment, her hands folded in her lap. For whatever reason, she did not seem to hold any anger toward Meryll despite her part in Ser Barristan’s deception. “I have left their fate in the hands of the gods,” Daenerys finally said, shrugging. “Though I do not know what I will do if they should somehow return alive. What good is a knight to me if I have no reason to trust what he says to be true?”

The Targaryen queen had an almost off-putting ability to get to the heart of the matter with very little guile. Meryll squirmed under the queen’s discerning gaze, but her need to defend Ser Barristan’s honour was greater than her discomfort. Meryll cared little about Ser Jorah’s fate - she had disliked the way he tried to control Daenerys. He protected her, yes, but it was a different sort of protection than what Ser Barristan had offered his queen. It was controlling, and bearish, with much growling and posturing, and it left a bad taste in Meryll’s mouth.

“I hope you will not fault me if I speak freely, Your Grace. I cannot speak for Ser Barristan, I can only speak to what I know of him, and my own part in this deception. We did not know anything of you, other than your Targaryen bloodline and the few stories that managed to make their way across the Narrow Sea. Ser Barristan would have come to you directly from the service of King Robert- the _usurper_ ,” she quickly corrected herself, “and you would have had no reason to believe him or trust him. We wanted to find some other way to serve you, to observe, to see what kind of a queen you were. But like all lies that start out small, the longer it went on, the harder it became to find a time to tell you the truth. Ser Jorah was already so suspicious of us. But there is nothing I can say to excuse our betrayal of your trust. I am sorry for that, Your Grace.”

“There is a book at the Red Keep,” Meryll continued. “It records the lives and deeds of every member of the Kingsguard, and before leaving, Ser Barristan updated his own entry, ending with his dismissal. But Your Grace, that is not how his story ends.”

Meryll looked up to meet Daenerys’ eyes. She _must_ convince her.

“Ser Barristan was, _is_ , Westeros’ greatest living knight. Even at his age, he took the lives of two Kingsguard to escape the Red Keep — to get to you. Cersei may have dismissed him from her son’s service, but he took his vows for life, and he means to keep them. He would give his life freely for you. And he will never seek to control you, or to increase his own stature or power. He will follow you, offering guidance when needed.” Unlike Ser Jorah, who was more like to _herd_ his khaleesi down a path of his own choosing. “Ser Barristan will see you to your rightful throne, Your Grace. If you take him into your Queensguard, he will serve you until he is no longer of this world. And _that_ is how his story ends.”

“You love him,” Daenerys said, a look of realization on her face.

Meryll had become close to the Targaryen queen despite all the secrets she had kept from her. Still, it was not something she wished to speak of, not with anyone.

“We have travelled together for a long time now — it was inevitable that we would become close,” she deflected.

Daenerys shook her head slightly. “I meant, you are _in_ love with him.”

Even hearing Daenerys say the words was like a dull knife pushing through flesh and bone to her heart. If she was truly honest with herself, it was a pain that had plagued her these past few months, though she kept it buried deep inside – a distant, but constant ache.

There had been times in her life where she thought she was in love, where she thought her heart had been broken, but looking back, none of those loves had been much more than a passing fancy. This was something else entirely.

“You are an observant woman, Your Grace, so I’m sure none of this will come as a surprise to you,” Meryll said. “I don’t know how much you remember about the stories you learned in your childhood, but I grew up hearing about Aemon the Dragonknight, Duncan the Tall, Ser Arthur Dayne – all the great knights – though my favourite was always Ser Barristan Selmy. Most girls dream about riding off into the sunset with their knight in shining armour, and I did too, but I also dreamed of fighting by his side.”

She laughed then. “My sisters used to tease me endlessly about Barristan the _Old_. It was just a harmless girlish infatuation. I certainly never thought I’d ever even _meet_ the man, never mind embarking upon a journey with him to the other side of the world. You’d think after reading about this paragon of a man in the books and spending years and years honing the perfect image of him in my mind that there would only be disappointment found in meeting the real flesh and blood version — especially the version that is no longer a young man in his prime, but a man who has celebrated over sixty name days. Not so, I’m afraid,” she shrugged, smiling sadly at Daenerys. “I am completely and utterly devoted to him. How is it that a man’s flaws and doubts and regrets and hurts only make him more admirable and attractive?”

“I am well aware that my love will ever and always be hopelessly unrequited for he is bound by his vows, and even if he wasn’t, he is so blinded by his purpose in life that how could he ever see me? And even in another life where he had never joined the Kingsguard, he would not be the man he is today, and I would not be the woman I am, shaped as I am by the stories of his valor, so who is to say if my heart would be the same? His devotion to his vows and purpose are what make him the man he is, and if he were the type of man who could turn his back on such things, I would not love him so.”

“Have you told him?” Dany asked, her eyes soft with sympathy.

“Not in so many words, but I’m sure he suspects. I kissed him, in Pentos,” she admitted, “but he stopped me, saying that he was too old, and that he had taken vows.”

Daenerys frowned. “His vows as a Kingsguard? But I thought Cersei dismissed him from his post?”

Meryll nodded ruefully. “That’s what I thought as well, but he is committed to keeping his vows, says when he said his vows to your father he took them for life and means to keep them.”

“I would never ask such a thing of my Queensguard,” Dany said. “It is not right. It is no better than what was done to my Unsullied.”

“Those vows exist for a reason though,” Meryll argued. “They eliminate all the things a man might choose over his king — his home, his wife, his children.”

“Perhaps,” Dany said, but did not look convinced. She stood then. “I must go see if there has been any news of the two knights. Thank you, Lady Meryll, for your honesty this evening.” 

“Of course. There will be no more secrets between us, Your Grace, I swear it.”

Dany nodded. “Good. I will not tolerate anymore deceitfulness, especially from you.”

 

 

 

He had bathed in the creek almost immediately upon his return to the camp, not sure if he would ever be able to remove the stench from himself. Even after much scrubbing, he still could not stand the smell of himself, and finally resorted to cutting off his filth-ridden hair with a knife, and trimming his long beard as well. The sewers had been everything Daario said they would be. A maze of tunnels, the filthy water reaching well past their waists, and hordes of the biggest rats he had ever seen. They had even spotted large lizard-like creature, but it had slipped beneath the surface of the water at the knights’ approach. It hadn’t exactly made the trek through the sewers any more enjoyable, knowing what creatures were hidden in its depths. They had wandered the tunnels through much of the night until they finally stumbled upon a metal grate weak with rust, just as Daario said. With a bit of effort, they were able to push their way through and into the city streets above. After that, their task had been straight-forward: find the gate tower, kill the guards before they could raise an alarm, and open the gates to let in the Unsullied.

Most people would not think of a knight, and certainly not a kingsguard, when they thought of someone sneaking silently in the dark and slitting throats. But then, most knights were not Ser Barristan Selmy. He had been just a young man when he sneaked into Duskendale under the cover of night, freed King Aerys from his dungeon cell, and fought his way out with king in tow. For that, he was called The Hero of Duskendale. Neither he nor Mormont would be hailed the Heroes of Meereen though, for as soon as they opened the gates and let the Unsullied in, Greyworm was quick to dismiss them, informing them that the queen did not want traitors fighting her battles and that they were to immediately return to the camp. Even now he could hear the battle waging just within the city gates — it felt strange to not be a part of it. For years, he had led his men into battle, and now he had been sent back to the camp to wait with the women, children and elderly.

Deciding he was as clean as he was going to get, he walked through the camp to the pavilion tent. There, he found Daenerys seated by a fire outside the pavilion despite the late hour. Strong Belwas and two of her handmaidens stood close by. When she saw Barristan approaching, she dismissed her three companions with a wave of her hand.

“You’re not dead,” she said flatly.

He smiled slightly as he knelt before her. “I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Your Grace, but I am alive and well.”

She did not return his smile but stared off into the distance where the sounds of the battle could still be heard. “I’m told we will win the battle. My Unsullied have broken into the fighting pits and struck the chains from the slaves, and now the fighting slaves are killing their masters.”

“That is good news, Your Grace,” he said.

She looked back at him with some annoyance. “You may rise,” she said briskly. “Did Ser Jorah return as well?”

“Yes, though I have not seen him since we returned to camp,” he said, shifting to a seated position by the fire. He could not help but glance at the canvas flap leading into the pavilion tent, wondering how Lady Meryll was faring. Daenerys’ amethyst gaze followed his own.

“Lady Meryll was very determined of convincing me of your honour,” she said, her cool gaze returning to him.

So she had been conscious and feeling well enough to carry on a conversation, he surmised, relaxing a little. “And did she?” he asked.

Daenerys was quiet, staring down at her hands for a moment before answering. “I like Lady Meryll,” she finally said. “And despite her part in your lies and deception, I trust her.”

“She is a good woman, and a good friend to you,” he said carefully, assuming nothing from the queen’s words.

“If I were to let you stay, how would you see yourself serving me?” Daenerys asked.

“Should you find me worthy to bear a sword once more, I would serve as your faithful knight to the end of my days. Nothing would make me happier, Your Grace,” he said honestly. “But if not, I would be content with continuing to serve as a squire to Strong Belwas.”

Daenerys made a small huffing sound at his response. “And if I should only find you worthy enough to serve as my cook?”

“Then I would be honoured to be your cook, Your Grace, and I hope you like charred duck and roasted apples.” He thought he might have seen her lips turn up slightly, but it was hard to tell with only the dim light of the fire.

“Very well,” she said, “I will think on it and give you my decision tomorrow once we have taken the city.”

Barristan stood and bowed, his eyes flitting over to the pavilion door again as he straightened up.

“Go and see her,” Daenerys said gently, “she’ll want to know that you returned safely.”

He nodded his thanks before pushing through the tent flap, blinking slightly in the darkness. Only a few candles were lit inside the tent, and it took his eyes a moment to adjust. Finally he saw her, lying under a heap of blankets. He approached quietly, and knelt by her side. It seemed she’d already been awake, as she stirred slightly at his presence. She tried to sit up, but froze suddenly, the sharp intake of her breath evidence that even the slightest movement caused her pain.

“Ser?” she asked, her voice husky with sleep. 

“You don’t need to get up, my lady, just rest.”

She stirred again, whimpering slightly. “Help me onto my side?”

He nodded. Mero’s blade had taken her across the back, the wound extending from her left shoulder toward the middle of her back, and so when Barristan leaned over to help her, he gently rolled her onto her right side, careful not to bump her where she was hurting.

She looked up at him, squinting slightly in the darkness. “You cut your hair,” she said, reaching up to touch his face, her fingers running over his closely-trimmed beard. He caught her hand with his own, gently removing it from his face, but keeping it firmly clasped in his own. Her skin was warm — slightly fevered, but not enough that he needed to worry.

“Is it so bad?” he asked her, and he was rewarded for his teasing with a small smile. “It was the only way I could get the stench of the sewers off of me,” he explained and her nose wrinkled slightly at the mention of the sewers.

“How goes the battle?” she asked, her words slightly slurred. He didn’t think she would remain awake much longer, and that was probably for the best. She needed to rest.

“The queen says we will win. The slaves have been freed, and fight against their masters,” he told her. When she didn’t respond, he waited a moment until her breathing was slow and even. He was just starting to remove her hand from his when she spoke again.

“Will you stay?”

He considered her request for a moment. He wanted to stay — he was exhausted and his own tent seemed a long ways away at this moment. Daenerys and her handmaidens were directly outside the tent, so no one could claim anything untoward was happening. And it was the first time in a long time they had shared a pleasant conversation, without ending up arguing in the end.

She still hadn’t released his hand, so really, he had no choice but to stretch out beside her, he rationalized. After that, sleep came quickly.


End file.
